ALLS 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


ELLEN  P.  ALLERTON'S 


WALLS  OF  CORN 


AND 


OTHER  POEMS. 


COLLECTED    AND    PUBLISHED    WITH 
MEMORIAL    SKETCH    BY 


EVA   RYAN. 


ILLUSTRATED. 


PRESS  OF 

THE  HARRINGTON  PRINTING  CO 
HIAWATHA,  KANSAS. 


COPYRIGHTED,  1894, 

BY 
EVA  KYAN, 


To  COL.  E.  A.  CALKINS,  THE  FRIEND  AND  ADMIRER  OF 
MRS.  ALLERTON  AND  HER  POEMS,  WHO  HAS  so  KINDLY 

AIDED  BY  ADVICE  AND   SUGGESTIONS  IN  ITS  PREPARATION 
THIS  LITTLE  VOLUME  IS  GRATEFULLY  DEDICATED. 


761017 


CONTENTS. 

A 

Atinabelle 4 

A  Sweet  Woman 34 

An  Autumn  Picture 64 

A  Housekeeper's  Question 65 

A  Storm  on  the  Frontier 77 

At  the  Falls 81 

A  Wayside  Tree 114 

A  Song-  of  Peace 115 

A  Kansas  Prairie  and  Its  People 116 

Acceptance 117 

A  Lesson  for  the  New  Year 118 

A  Morning-  Call 147 

A  Message 157 

At  the  Garden  Gate 158 

A  Little  Lcmg-er 161 

A  Home  Out  West 165 

A  Dirg-e 171 

Agazzis  181 

An  Evening'  Monologue 182 

A  Country  Home 185 

ABrideofaDay 188 

A  Dream 189 

A  Race  for  Life 200 

A  Dedicatory  Hymn 227 

A  Summer  Night 238 

After  the  Wedding- 248 

B 

Becalmed 98 

Bubbles 120 

Beyond  the  River , 133 

Blackbirds 140 

Beautiful  Things 166 

Birthday  Greeting- 176 

C 

Choice 40 

Coming  Honie....    > 63 

Confidence 121 

Carrier's  Address 127 

Carrier's  Address  (MDLXXV) 150 

Crazy  Nell 178 


CONTENTS. 


D 

Died  of  Want  85 

Dick  and  I  ^ 

Down  Stream  93 

Dreams 96 

Deep  Waters 102 

Don't  You  Tell 139 

Down  Below, 140 

Discontent 167 

Departed 173 

Days  We  Remember  190 

Day  by  Day .232 

E 
Every  Day  Work 201 

F 

Farmer  Jones  on  Inflation 47 

Foreboding' 67 

Fou  rscore 152 

Fame  153 

Found— Not  Too  Late 186 

Friends  That  I  Used  to  Know ..194 

Farmer  John 202 

Farmer  Jones  on  Corn  246 

G 

Good  Nig-ht 24 

Good  Luck- A  Christmas  Ballad 32 

God  Knows 76 

Grandmother 109 

Gentle  Spring- 168 

G  reen  leaf  242 

H 

Hig-h  and  Low 112 

Harvest-Home 133 

Hours  of  Pain 142 

Harvest 143 

Hazard 146 

How  Two  Knights  Rode  to  London 224 

Haunted 245 

I 

In  Memoriam    52 

Is  Marriage  a  Failure? 98 

Indian  Summer 110 

Indiana 148 

In  the  Caboose 177 

If  I  Were  You ..210 


CONTENTS. 


K 

Kansas,  the  Prairie  Queen 37 

Keep  Your  Temper 56 

Knitting 239 

L 

Little  Things 57 

Love    60 

Leave  me  alone 67 

Laura 99 

Love    112 

Love  and  Hate 148 

Labor 204 

M 

My  Ambition 1 

My  Darling- 34 

My  Wild  Rose 59 

Moods  of  March 68 

My  Mother's  Wheel 86 

My  Hickory  Tree 89 

Magic  Stones 95 

Morning-  View  of  Lake  Michigan 135 

My  Stalk  of  Corn 1% 

Machine  Poetry 199 

Mrs.  HattieTyng  Griswold 216 

N 

November  Rain 122 

N  ight  and  Sleep 174 

No  Such  Thing  As  Love 195 

O 

OutWest 42 

Only  One 55 

Our  Friendship 90 

Over  Niagara 91 

October  Days 97 

Over  the  Hil  1 124 

One  Hour 136 

Our  Chart 213 

On  the  Farm 229 

Old  Letters 241 

Only  a  Woman 244 

Old  Flames 247 

P 

Poetic  Pies 54 

Peace  After  War  207 

Pity  Her '..     ..  231 

Probably  Not 23S 


COXTKNTS. 


R 

Rescue  the  Perishing 71 

S 

Summer S3 

Smile* ...  55 

Seeing  the  Editors HI 

Shadows 123 

Spring 226 

Struggle «» 

September 234 

Spinning  Tow 23* 

T 

The  Mortgage- A  Christmas  Tale 21 

The  Stepmother  25 

The  Fields  of  Corn 27 

To  Mary 2H 

The  Tower  of  Silence 30 

Tin-  Summer's  Tale  Is  Told 30 

The  Renter's  Exodus 4<> 

The  Man  for  the  Hour <>2 

Two  Farewells 69 

The  Thread  of  Gray   7O 

The  Snow  Blockade  74 

To  the  Memory  of  a  Young- Friend   ..78 

The  Old  Soldier 80 

Taught  bv  a  Bird   83 

Tar-and-Feather  Reform 8* 

The  Whip-po-wil   101 

The  Sod  House  on  the  Prairie 103 

The  First  Breath  of  Spring 105 

Ths  Wayside  Trough   106 

The  Talking  Fiend 108 

The  First  Bird   125 

Trailing  Clouds 137 

The  Trail  of  Forty-Nine 144 

The  Fate  of  a  Genius 153 

The  Night  Light 150 

Tl'e  Old  Butternut  Tree 162 

The  Pity  of  It   1(>3 

The  Sleeping  Village 169 

The  Old  Stone  Quarry 172 

Trouble ." 183 

Then  and  Now 184 

The  Old  Farmhouse I'»2 

The  Nation's  Patient 198 

The  Wild  Rose 2M5 

To  Mrs.  C.  H.  Phillips 2n<> 

Tragedy  and  Farce 20X 

The  Last  Hour  of  the  Year  211 

Thanksgiving  Night   212 

To  Mr.  and  Mrs.  John  Young 214 

Two  Christmas  Guests 216 

The  Last  Hour 21S 

The  Storm 221 

The  Farther  Shore 250 

To  Emma,  On  Her  Wedding  Day 251 

U 
Unbelief 15<> 

W 

\VallsofCorn 2        Why 138 

Wants 44        Weighing  the  World 1H9 

Westward  46       Who  Knows 23) 

Will  He  Come  To-Night? 104       When  Days  Grow  Dark. 223 

Woman's   Work 109        Wooing." 252 


IN  MEMORIAM, 


Mrs.  Ellen  P.  Allerton  was  born  in  1835  near 
Centerville,  New  York.  Being  the  only  girl  in 
the  family,  and  having  seven  older  brothers,  she 
early  became  the  "queen  of  the  household." 

When  about  fifteen  years  of  age  she  attended 
school  at  an  academy  in  Hamilton,  New  York. 
At  the  end  of  two  years  she  returned  to  Center 
ville  where  she  was  a  successful  teacher  in  the 
district  school.  It  was  about  this  time  she  began 
writing  poetry. 

In  the  summer  of  1862,  while  on  a  visit  to 
Wisconsin,  she  met  A.  B.  Allerton,  and  they  were 
married  the  following  fall,  and  settled  on  a  farm. 

The  Wisconsin  home  of  Mrs.  Allerton  was  a 
modern  farm  cottage  near  Lake  Mills,  a  village  in 
the  central  southern  portion  of  the  state,  away 
from  the  railroads  and  from  the  noise  and  bustle 
of  busy  life.  Some  of  the  earliest  settlers  had  lo 
cated  in  the  neighborhood.  Mr.  Allerton' s  farm 
was  on  the  west  slope  of  the  Rock  River  valley, 
with  hills  rising  still  farther  to  the  westward.  It 
was  historic  ground.  The  inarches,  retreats,  and 
pursuits  of  the  Black  Hawk  war  had  left  their 
lines  across  the  country.  A  few  miles  away  was 
P'ort  Atkinson,  now  a  thriving  little  railroad  town. 

Passing  the  door  of  the  farm  house  was  a  broad 
country  road  which  Mrs.  Allerton  once  described 


IN  MF-:. Mr>  HI  AM. 


in  its  summer  aspect  as  "a  ribbon  of  gray  with  a 
border  of  green.''  At  a  short  distance  the  road 
crossed  a  clear  babbling  brook  which  flowed  under 
a  rustic  bridge,  away  through  a  grove  of  oaks, 
down  beside  the  meadows  and  wheat  fields,  bi 
secting  other  roads  toward  the  Rock  River,  of 
which  it  is  a  tributary.  There  was  an  orchard 
protected  by  a  belt  of  willows.  Some  rods  away 
was  a  spring,  the  oveiflow  of  which  formed  a  rill 
leading  to  the  creek.  Across  the  road  on  the  side 
of  the  hill  to  _the  westward  was  the  abandoned 
stone  quarry  described  in  one  of  her  most  charm 
ing  and  characteristic  poems. 

This  delightful  home  in  which  Mrs.  Allerton 
led  her  qniet  life  for  several  years,  she  has  de 
scribed  in  the  following  poem: 

A  nook  among  the  hills,  .lit  tie  faring 

Whose  fertile  acres  yield  us  daily  bread: 
A  homely,  low  browed  dwelling,  snug  and  warm. 

With  wide  blue  country  skies  hung  overhead. 

No  costly  splendor  here,  no  guilder!  glow, 
No  deai-  Ixmght  pictures  hang  upon  the  walls; 

Rut  bright  and  happy  faces  come  and  go. 
And  through  the  windows  God's  sweet  sunshine  falls. 

We  are  not  rich  in  heaps  of  hoarded  gold: 

We  are  not  poor,  for  we  can  keep  at  bay 
The  poor  man's  haunting  spectres,  want  and  cold, 

<  'an  keep  from  owing  debts  we  cannot  pay. 

We  hear  the  great  world  surging  like  a  sea, 
But  the  loud  roar  of  winds  and  waves  at  war. 


IX  MEMOKIAM. 


Subdued  by  distance,  comes  melodiously, 
A  soft  and  gentle  murmur,  faint  and  far. 

We  see  the  small  go  up,  the  great  come  down, 

And  bless  the  peaceful  safety  of  our  lot, 
The  broken  scepter  and  the  toppling  crown, 

And  crash  of  falling  thrones,  these  shake  us  not. 

We  have  some  weary  toil  to  struggle  through, 
Some  trials,  that  we  bravely  strive  to  meet; 

We  have  our  sorrows,  as  all  mortals  do; 
We  have  our  joys,  too.  pure,  and  calm,  and  sweet. 

Is  such  a  life  too  even  in  its  flow? 

Too  silent,  calm,  too  barren  of  event? 
Its  very  joys  to  still?    I  do  not  know: 

I  think  he  conquers  all,  who  wins  content. 

"The  Old  Stone  Quarry"  describes  a  rude 
scene  in  nature,  which  she  adorned  with  the  col 
oring  that  only  a  poet's  fancy  can  supply.  There 
are  but  few  lessons  in  poetry  and  philosophy  more 
instructive  or  pathetic  than  that  which  she  drew 
from  the  piles  of  rough  rocks,  which  remained  at 
the  place  where  enterprise  and  industry  had  failed 
to  gather  a  harvest  of  profit.  These  lines  are 
beautiful  both  in  rythm  and  poetic  thought: 

"  There  are  human  souls  that  seem  to  me 
Like  this  unwrought  stone— for  all  you  see — 
Is  a  shapeless  quarry  of  what  might  be, 
Lying  idle  and  overgrown 

With  tangled  weeds,  like  this  beautiful  stone — 
Possible  work  left  all  undone, 
Possible  victories  left  unwon." 

Glimpses   of  description   and  illusions   to   her 


IN   MEMORIAM. 


Wisconsin  home  life  appear  constantly  in  her  po 
ems.  "The  Hickory  Tree,"  the  subject  of  one 
of  her  poems,  stood  in  front  of  the  door  beside  the 
pathway  leading  to  the  gate.  It  was  a  monster 
in  height  and  in  the  spread  of  its  branches.  She 
portrays  it  as  "  tall  and  royal,  and  grand  to  see." 
It  was  so  indeed.  It  stood  alone,  a  monarch  of 
its  kind.  She  associated  it  with  her  friendships, 
in  these  lines: 

"  And  here  with  friends  on  summer  <-\es. 
We  sit  in  the  sunsets  mellow  glow 
Sit  till  the  night  winds  loss  the  leaves. 
And  the  moonbeams  sift  to  the  sward  below." 

The  whip-po-wiPs  music  described  as  floating 
on  the  air  "when  the  twilight  drops  its  curtain 
down  "  was  the  identical  bird  that  sang  its  mo 
notonous  notes  in  an  adjacent  thicket,  as  she  and 
her  friends  sat  at  her  door,  or  she  sat  there  alone 
in  fellowship  with  her  own  romantic  fancies. 

The  description  of  "The  Sleeping  Village" 
relates  to  Lake  Mills,  and  in  perusing  its  lines  one 
cannot  but  wonder  how  she  would  have  described 
a  great  city  asleep,  as  in  contrast  with  its  noisy 
daytime. 

The  "  Morning  View  of  Lake  Michigan  "  was 
written  after  one  of  her  visits  to  Milwaukee. 

The  attentive  reader  will  detect' in  her  other 
poems  hints  and  remembrances  which  relate  to 
her  old  home  and  its  surroundings,  and  the  dear 


IN   MEMORIAM. 


delights  of  which  she  bore  in  her  mind  as  souve 
nirs  to  her  grave.  The  house,  the  landscape 
around,  the  murmuring  brook,  the  clear  spring, 
the  winding  country  road,  its  "  border  of  green," 
the  hillsides,  the  fruit-laden  trees,  the  rural  path, 
associated  always  in  her  mind  with  reflections  on 
human  life  and  its  vicissitudes,  with  friends  whose 
communion  she  had  enjoyed  in  their  midst,  and 
with  which  their  images  were  inseparably  blended. 

"Beautiful  Things"  has  especially  received 
recognition  throughout  the  United  States,  and  is 
unsurpassed  by  any  American  author.  It  had 
been  reprinted  in  all  the  principal  newspapers  be 
fore  she  left  Wisconsin,  and  its  classical  beauty 
recognized  by  its  insertion  in  an  American  An 
thology, 

Admirable,  suggestive,  full  of  native  philoso 
phy,  inspired  by  genius  as  these  poems  are,  they 
are  surpassed  in  vigor,  in  wealth  of  imagery  and 
ripened  thought  by  her  Kansas  poems.  She  had 
passed  middle  life  when  she  came  to  Kansas.  But 
her  poetic  mind  was  late  in  bearing  its  best  fruits. 
She  advanced  in  poetic  growth  as  she  advanced 
in  years.  The  poems  written  under  the  new 
skies  of  the  farther  west,  under  new  influences, 
with  the  inspiration  of  new  phases  which  nature 
presented,  studying  a  different  line  of  tradition, 
with,  perhaps,  a  more  extended  circle  of  admiring 


IN  MEMORIAM. 


and  appreciative  friends,  are  her  best  titles  to 
fame.  "Walls  of  Corn  "  and  "The  Trail  of  For 
ty-Nine  "  are  the  finest  productions  of  her  genius. 
"Walls  of  Corn"  was  written  in  1884.  A 
short  distance  from  her  home  was  a  belt  of  timber 
which  was  her  favorite  resort,  more,  probably,  be 
cause  it  reminded  her  of  Wisconsin  surroundings. 
In  the  spring  the  field  across  the  road  was  plant 
ed  in  corn.  Often  in  the  evening  she  watched 
this  field  of  corn  from  the  door,  and  heard  the 
broad  blades  as  they  rustled  and  clashed  like  sol 
diers'  weapons  when  in  close  conflict,  and  admired 
it  all.  Little  did  she  think  this  field  of  corn 
would  hide  her  from  that  dearer  spot,  that  "wood 
ed  dell"  that  lay  at  the  foot  of  the  "billowy 
swell  "  and  that 

"  All  the  world  would  be  narrowed  down 
To  walls  of  corn,  when  sear  and  brown." 

But  thus  it  came  to  pass,  and  as  the  cornfield  ob 
structed  her  vision,  that  beautiful  poem,  which 
gave  her  more  fame  than  any  other,  was  written. 
Mrs.  Allerton  was  loved  and  appreciated 
not  alone  for  the  productions  of  her  pen,  but  for 
her  social  qualities,  and  for  the  active  and  ready 
interest  taken  in  benevolent  and  charitable  enter 
prises.  Indeed  charity  was  her  crowning  virtue. 
Not  the  charity  that  makes  "swift  feet"  to  re 
lieve  material  want,  but  that  broader  charity  that 


IN  MEMORIAM. 


hides  defects  and  covers  imperfections.  This  trait 
was  shown  conspicuously  in  her  generous  treat 
ment  of  the  literary  efforts  of  those  who  might  be 
called  her  rivals.  She  saw  and  freely  acknowl 
edged  their  merit,  pointing  out  their  beauties,  and 
ignoring  or  touching  lightly  their  blemishes.  The 
lowest  was  not  beneath  her  kindly  notice,  and 
the  highest  did  not  awe  her  soul  into  blind  wor 
ship. 

Her  modest,  unobtrusive  nature,  and  acute 
sensitiveness  would  always  have  kept  her  in  the 
background  but  for  her  large  heart,  her  broad 
sympathies,  and  her  fertile  intellect.  Her  poems 
were  but  the  reflex  of  herself.  Their  purity  of 
thought  and  diction  was  but  the  outflow  of  such  a 
heart.  Her  enthusiastic  defense  of  right  was  but 
the  harmony  of  her  soul,  and  her  castigation  of 
wrong,  the  protestation  of  her  nature.  There  is, 
perhaps,  not  so  much  variety  of  style  in  her  writ 
ings  as  in  those  who  write  only  by  virtue  of  intel 
lectual  force — by  brain  power — as  Byron  wrote. 

She  seldom  indulged  in  sarcasm.  It  was  only 
when  the  wrong  could  not  be  reached  by  argu 
ment,  when  reason  thrown  against  it  fell  flat  like 
a  bullet  from  "A  Man-of-War. "  and  dynamite 
only  was  available,  then  her  projectiles  of  sarcasm 
struck  home.  The  bitter  irony  and  sarcasm  in 
the  little  poem  "Tar  and  Feather  Reform," 


xvi  IX   MEMORIAM. 


showed  her  indignation  at  the  wrongs  perpetrat 
ed  under  the  hypocritical  pretense  of  outraged 
virtue  (a  crime  infinitely  greater  than  the  sin  it 
sought  to  punish,)  how  in  her  heart  she  detested 
"cant  hypocracy,"  and  the  clamorous  throngs 
that  cry  "Stone  her!  Stone  her!"  and  then  cower 
and  shrink  away  when  the  search  light  is  thrown 
upon  them.  Uncharitable  vengeance,  and  un 
christian  revenge,  were  not  in  her  creed. 

She  had  no  children  of  her  own,  but  her 
mother  heart  won  the  love  of  those  placed  under 
her  care.  No  one  could  be  in  her  home  long 
without  discovering  the  marked  respect  and  lov 
ing  regard  they  had  for  her.  She  was  wifely,  wo 
manly  and  motherly,  what  more  need  be  said? 

She  has  laid  aside  the  work  of  wife,  friend 
and  writer,  leaving  us  the  serene  satisfaction  that 
it  was  well  and  conscientiously  done.  Such  a  wo 
man  and  her  life  is  a  cheering  stimulus  to  all  fel 
low  life.  Her  memory  will  ever  remain  a  warm 
and  radiant  token  to  those  who  knew  her  best. 

Mrs.  Hattie  Peeler  pays  a  beautiful  tribute  to 
her  memory  in  the  following  lines: 

"September  reigns  o'er  hills  and  plains 

A  radiant  smiling  queen, 
With  beauteous  face  and  regal  grace. 

And  robe  of  gold  and  green; 
The  .sunflowers  gay  bedeck  IUT  way. 

And  in  the  breezes  nod. 
Like  plumed  knights  with  ia>sHs  bright. 

The  yellow  golden  rod. 


IN  MEMORIAM. 


The  wild  bird's  song  is  blytlie  and  long 

As  here  and  there  they  roam. 
Gay  butterfly  sails  idly  by 

Nor  recks  of  storms  to  come. 
The  fruit  trees  hold  a  wealth  of  gold, 

Plum,  apple,  peach  and  pear; 
A  mellow  haze  tills  all  the  days, 

A  calm  and  tranquil  air. 

On  fertile  plain,  where  sun  and  rain 

Their  equal  parts  have  borne, 
Stand  side  by  side,  in  stately  pride, 

Tall  ranks  of  ripening  corn. 
Golden  and  green,  the  colors  are  seen, 

Shading  downward  to  amber  pale, 
As  the  ''Walls  of  Corn"  in  the  sun  of  morn 

Fling  their  banners  green. 

There  is  a  voice  at  morn  from  "Walls  of  Corn,'' 

Telling  of  comfort,  of  plenty,  of  cheer, 
Of  toil  never  spurned,  of  wealth  fairly  earned, 

In  the  harvest  which  draweth  so  near: 
And  again  soft  and  low,  comes  a  sound  sad  and  slow 

Like  a  sob  to  mine  ears  is  borne, 
Or  the  breath  of  a  sigh  as  the  wind  passes  by 

O'er  the  tall  golden  ranks  of  the  corn. 

It  tells  of  a  lute  that  is  silent,  or  mute, 

Of  a  singer  whose  earth  songs  are  o'er; 
Of  a  sweet  kindly  life,  free  from  envy  or  strife, 

Of  a  parting  to  meet  here  no  more: 
Of  hearts  sad  and  lone  since  the  loved  one  lias  gone. 

Of  a  grave  where  they  linger  to  mourn. 
Of  a  life  work  complete,  of  a  rest  calm  and  sweet 

For  the  singer  who  sang  of  the  corn. 

The  bright  sunlight  falls  on  stately  green  walls 

And  they  change  into  amber  and  gold, 
But  the  song,  it  is  done,  the  singer  is  gone, 

And  her  story  on  earth  has  been  told. 
Beyond  the  borders  of  time,  in  that  beautiful  clime 

Where  none  sicken,  or  sorrow,  or  mourn, 
'Mid  a  glorified  band  in  that  bright  summer  land 

Dwells  the  singer  that  sang  of  the  corn." 


IX  MKMORIAM. 


1  I  k  ii  Palmer  Allerton. 
Died  August  31,  1893. 

There's  the  sound  of  a  sob  in  the  "Walls  of  Corn, 
Whose  banners  toss  on  the  breeze  of  morn," 

And  a  threnoby  throbs  through  the  fields  to-day, 
For  the  voice  of  their  singer  h;i-  pasx-d  away. 

Vet  fields  are  fair  though  heart-  an-  !>aiv. 
And  death  has  gathered  a  harvest  there. 

**»*«* 

She  toiled  and  sang— and  "heaven's  dome 
Smiled  softly  over  her  prairie  home." 

While  the  "Walls  of  Corn"  through  the  summer  days 
Shut  out  the  world  from  her  wistful  gaze. 

And  she  sang  of  those  walls  that  hid  from  view 
The  dearest  spot  that  her  vision  knew, 

A.nd,  later,  of  walls  that  shut  away 

Her  dimming  eyes  from  the  light  of  day— 

And  then,  in  the  dark,  sang  on  and  on 
Of  hope,  and  rest,  and  the  coming  dawn. 

****** 

<  'i  i-ping  and  ripening  stands  the  corn 
"With  banners  flung  to  the  breeze  of  morn," 

While  the  sunflowers  nod— and  the  golden  rod— 
(M»T  a  home  of  Kansas  sod. 

—ALBERT  BIOELOW  PA  IM;. 


IN  MEMORIAM. 


A  Tribute  to  Mrs.  Ellen  P.  Allerton. 

O!  sweet  are  the  songs  of  the  muses, 

Like  breath  from  the  roses  in  June, 
To  the  soul  that  aspires  and  uses 

With  a  heart  that's  awake  and  in  tune. 
For  the  beauty  of  earth  has  no  sweetness 

The  soul  may  not  gather  and  own; 
And  the  worth  of  true  hearts  have  more  greatness 

Than  power  encircling  a  throne. 

Thy  life  was  fair  truth's  best  adorning, 

Thy  smile  like  the  roses  in  June 
Gathering  sweetness  and  joy  with  the  morning 

And  spreading  them  far  with  the  noon. 
Thy  heart  was  a  blossom  of  sunlight 

With  the  spirit  to  conquer  and  rise 
And  brighten  the  azure  of  midnight 

With  stars  that  are  noblest  and  wise. 

Thy  poems  are  sweet  and  enchanti  ng 

As  music  that  floats  o'er  the  sea 
From  isles  where  bright  sunbeams  are  slanting 

Their  gold  over  hill  top  and  tree. 
Their  worth  to  true  womanhood  bringing 

A  wreath  from  the  garlands  of  time 
Where  Fame  thy  sweet  praises  are  singing 

In  anthems  of  beauty  sublime. 

For  all  life  is  a  poem  of  glory 

Neither  reason  or  senses  can  grasp 
Till  we  read  every  verse  in  the  story 

And  the  hand  of  the  author  we  clasp. 
And  thy  songs  were  like  Sapho's  of  olden, 

With  visions  of  soul-land  that  shine 
Till  the  harp  of  the  earthly  was  golden 

From  the  hand  of  the  Author  Divine. 

— GEORGK  W.  WARDER. 


IN  MEMORIAM. 


To  the  Memory  of  Ellen  P.  Allerton. 

Before  the  gates  of  morning 

A  singer,  sweet  and  strong, 
Poured  out  in  measured  cadence 

A  tender,  soulful  song — 
And  many  weary  toilers 

'Mid  labor's  clash  and  clanir. 
Took  heart,  and  hope,  and  courage; 

From  th"  message  which  sang; 

A  message  full  of  promise 

Of  better  things  to  come, 
The  promise  of  a  morning 

Where  hate,  and  greed,  and  rum, 
Shall  have  no  place  or  standing, 

Shall  have  no  right  to  be 
Betwixt  the  gates  of  morning 

On  the  purple  sundown  sea. 

Not  they  alone  who  labor 

In  the  sunny  fields  or  marl, 
But  they  whose  brains  are  wedded 

To  busy  hand  and  heart, 
Have  heard  the  singer's  message, 

Have  heard  her  songs  divine, 
Have  felt  her  inspiration, 

And  bow  them  at  her  shrine. 

— H.  W.  ROBY. 


MY    AMBITION. 

HAVE  my  own  ambition  —  it  is  not 

To  mount  on  eagle  wings  and  soar  away 
I'.t.'yond  the  palings  of  the  common  lot, 

Scorning  the  griefs  and  joys  of  every  day: 
I  would  be  human  —  toiling,  like  the  rest 

With  tender  human  heart-beats  in  my  breast. 

Not  on  cold,  lonely  heights,  above  the  ken 

Of  common  mortals  would  I  build  my  fame, 

But  in  the  kindly  hearts  of  living  men, 

There,  if  permitted,  would  I  write  my  name: 

Who  builds  above  the  clouds  must  dwell  alone; 
I  count  good  fellowship  above  a  throne. 

And  so,  beside  my  door  I  sit  and  sing 

My  simple  strains  —  now  sad,  now  light  and  gay. 
Happy,  if  this  or  that  but  wake  one  string. 

Whose  low,  sweet  echoes  give  me  back  the  lay— 
And  happier  still,  if  girded  by  my  song, 

Some  strained  and  tempted  soul  stands  firm  and 

strong. 

Humanity  is  much  the  same;  if  I 

Can  give  my  neighbors'  pent-up  thought  a  tongue. 
And  can  give  voice  to  his  unspoken  cry 

Of  bitter  pain,  when  my  own  heart  is  wrung, 
Then  we  two  meet  upon  a  common  land, 

And  henceforth  stand  together,  hand  in  hand. 

I  send  my  thought  its  kindred  thought  to  greet, 
Out  to  the  far  frontier,  through  crowded  town. 

Friendship  is  precious,  sympathy  is  sweet; 
So  these  be  mine,  I  ask  no  laurel-crown. 

vSuch  my  ambition,  which  I  here  unfold, 
So  it  be  granted  — mine  is  wealth  untold. 


WALLS  OF  CORN  AXD  OTHER  fOE.MS. 


Walls  of  Corn. 

SMILING  and  beautiful,  heaven's  dome, 
Bends  softly  over  our  prairie  home, 

But  the  wide,  wide  lands  that  stretched  away. 
Before  my  eyes  in  the  days  of  May, 

The  rolling  prairies  billowy  swell, 
Breezes  uplands  and  the  timbered  dell, 

Stately  mansion  and  hut  forlorn, 
All  are  hidden  by  walls  of  corn. 

All  wide  the  world  is  narrowed  down, 
To  walls  of  corn,  now  sear  and  brown. 

What  do  they  hold — these  walls  of  corn, 
Whose  banners  toss  on  the  breeze  of  morn? 

He  who  questions  may  soon  be  told, 

A  great  state's  wealth  these  walls  enfold. 

No  sentinels  guard  these  walls  of  corn, 
Never  a  sound  the  of  warder's  horn. 

Yet  the  pillars  are  hung  with  gleaming  gold, 
Left  all  unbarred,  though  thieves  are  bold, 

Clothes  and  food  for  the  toiling  poor, 
Wealth  to  heap  at  the  rich  man's  door; 

Meat  for  the  healthy,  and  balm  for  him 
Who  moans  and  tosses  in  chamber  dim; 

Shoes  for  the  barefooted,  pearls  to  twine, 
In  the  scented  tresses  of  ladies  fine; 

Things  of  use  for  the  lowly  cot, 

Where  (bless  the  corn)  want  Cometh  not; 


No  sentinels  guard  these  walls  of  corn, 
Never  is  sounded  the  warders  horn. 


WALLS  OF  CORN  AND  OTHER  POEMS. 


Luxuries  rare  for  the  mansion  grand, 
Gifts  of  a  rich  and  fertile  land; 

All  these  things,  and  so  many  more, 
It  would  till  a  book  to  name  them  o'er, 

Are  hid  and  held  in  these  walls  of  corn, 
Whose  banners  toss  on  the  breeze  of  morn. 

Where  do  they  stand,  these  walls  of  corn, 
Whose  banners  toss  on  the  breeze  of  morn? 

Open  the  alas,  conned  by  rule, 

In  the  olden  days  of  the  district  school. 

Point  to  the  rich  and  bounteous  land, 
That  yields  such  fruits  to  the  toiler's  hand. 

"Treeless  desert "  they  called.it  then, 
Haunted  by  beasts  and  forsook  by  men. 

Little  they  knew  what  wealth  untold, 
Lay  hid  where  the  desolate  prairies  rolled. 

Who  would  have  dared,  with  brush  or  pen 
As  this  land  is  now,  to  paint  it  then? 

And  how  would  the  wise  ones  have  laughed  in  scorn, 
Had  prophets  foretold  these  walls  of  corn, 
Whose  banners  toss  on  the  breeze  of  morn? 


WALLS  OF  CORN  AND  OTHER  POEMS. 


AXXABELLE. 


A  Poem  of  the  Heart. 

LOOK  there,  my  friend,  through  yonder  clump  of  tree-.. 
You  see  yon  lofty,  weather-beaten  wall? 
You  hear  the  hum  of  wheels,  the  broken  fall 
Of  pent-up  waters  borne  along  the  breeze? 
That  is  the  old  brown  mill.    Its  walls  have  stood 
While  children's  children  have  grown  old  and  gray. 
While  ruthless  axes  have  hewn  down  tin1  wood, 
And  yonder  town  lias  grown,  rood  after  rood. 
The  mill  has  stood  there  as  it  stands  today. 

You  wonder  why  I  point  it  out  to  you? 
Well,  listen.     You  shall  hear  a  simple  tale- 
Simple  in  homaly  truth— which  cannot  fail 
To  wake  your  tencbrpity;  which  must  sue 
Sue  your  -you  have  a  heart?— to  charity. 
Only  a  story  of  a  child's  mistake: 
Of  blindness  lifted  when  too  late  to  see; 
Of  woman's  waking  when  too  late  to  wake: 
Of  man's  st  rong  passion  hardly  kept  in  check, 
And  the  strange  ending— if  things  end  at  all — 
1  >ometimes  fancy  they  do  not,  but  break  and  break 
In  ceaseless  ripples,  such  as  crimp  the  lake 
When  in  its  depths  one  lets  a  pebble  fall. 

Come  up  the  stream  a  little  way,  and  look 
Behind  those  drooping  elms.     You  see 
A  low,  white  cottage  by  the  roaring  brook, 
With  tangled  garden,  to  its  weeds  forsook, 
And  broken  panes,  where  rains  beat  dismally. 
Almost  within  the  shadow  of  the  mill. 
O'erhung  and  sheltered  by  yon  craggy  hill, 


WALLS  OF  CORN  AND  OTHER  POEMS. 


The  cottage  stands.    And  here,  at  eventide, 
After  a  glorious,  golden  day  of  June, 
•Just  as  the  sunset  paled  and  rose  the  moon, 
John  Dent,  the  miller,  brought  his  girlish  bride. 

Across  the  valley  had  a  marriage  bell 

Pealed  joyfully  at  morn.    A  child  had  stood 

(She  was  but  little  more) — young  Annabelle — 

And  uttered  vows  which  only  womanhood, 

Full-grown  and  earnest,  knowing  well  itself, 

Should  dare  to  utter.    It  was  not  for  pelf — 

No  scheming  child  of  sordid  need  was  she, 

Her  fresh  young  heart  all  meanness  was  above; 

And  when  young  John  had  wooed  her  tenderly 

And  gently  as  the  south  wind  woos  the  sea, 

She  gave  him  what,  in  truth,  she  thought  was  love. 

Had  she  but  lived  and  died  and  never  known, 

As  many  women  do:  had  she  not  learned 

What  else  she  had  to  give— what  slow  flres  burned, 

Smouldered  and  hid,  fed  by  themselves  alone; 

Had  no  hand  stirred  them  to  a  quenchless  blaze, 

All  had  gone  well — no,  loveless  is  not  well — 

But  had  not  gone  so  ill.    Sad.  sad  to  tell 

How  woke  into  a  wail  the  silent  tone; 

How  evil  stole  into  her  quiet  days; 

How  throbbed  her  heart  strings  like  a  tolling  bell. 

For  years  her  life  was  calm.    Sweetly  she  went 

Calm  household  ways,  and  kept  the  hearthstone  bright. 

Light  was  her  heart  at  noon,  serene  at  night, 

In  simple  kindliness  was  well  content. 

Yet  oft  she  wondered  why  the  tenderness 

That  closely  clasped  her  in  its  folding  arm, 

Could  wake  no  passion-throb  of  happiness, 

Why  loving  words,  so  earnest  and  so  warm, 

Should  have  so  little  potency  to  charm. 

Chided  herself,  and  blamed  her  girlish  heart 


WALLS  OF  CORN  AND  OTHER  POEMS. 


Because  it  gave  so  little — so  much  less 
Than  what  was  given  her— so  kept  apart, 
And  would  not  leap  and  thrill  at  love's  caress. 

And  when  her  flrst-born  laughed  upon  her  knee. 

And  looked  up  with  its  father's  eyes 

Into  her  own,  with  innocent  surprise, 

She  wondered  why  a  baby's  careless  glee, 

Its  clasping  lingers  and  its  aimless  kiss, 

Should  wake  within  her  heart  such  throbbing  bliss. 

Where  all  before  had  been  so  calm  and  still. 

Yet  more  she  blamed  herself— resolved  to  be 

A  loving  wife  henceforth — but  then,  ah  me! 

She  had  to  learn  that  love  comes  not  at  will, 

But  grows— if  grown  at  all— spontaneously; 

Its  clasping  tendrills  oft  refuse  to  twine, 

Nor  unto  careful  pressure  flows  its  wine. 

Thus  ran  the  days:  at  morn  her  household  toil, 

Then  needlework  or  books,  both  new  and  old; 

And  whatsoever  poets  sang  or  told, 

Found  in  her  hungry  heart  a  fertile  soil: 

The  mighty  master's  strains  were  household  words, 

So  often  had  she  conned  them  o'er  and  o'er 

And  humbler  poets'  songs  and  lays  of  birds, 

Blended  their  music  round  her  cottage  door. 

She  trained  her  flowers,  sang  her  cradle  song, 

And  taught  her  babe  to  lisp  its  father's  name 

First  of  all  words:  and  softly  went  and  came, 

Arid  neither  talked  nor  thought  of  "woman's  wrongs." 

In  afternoons  of  sunny  summer  day-.. 
Along  the  path  that  runs  beside  the  hill — 
Now  overgrown  with  weeds — to  yonder  mill 
She  turned  her  feet:  and  where  the  sunlight  plays 
There  in  the  doorway  through  those  giant  trees, 
The  child  beside  her,  and  the  toying  breeze 
Lifting  the  ringlets  of  her  dusky  hair, 


WALLS  OF  CORN  AND  OTHER  POEMS. 


She  sat,  the  while  her  husband  plied  his  toil, 
Oft  noting,  as  he  passed,  the  picture  fair 
Of  child  and  mother— often  pausing  there 
To  touch  her  brow,  or  lift  a  ringlet's  coil. 

So  passed  the  days.    The  brook  went  down  the  glen 
After  its  labor,  singing  on  its  way, 
Like  task-bound  school-boy  just  let  out  to  play; 
The  great  trees  rustled — there  were  many  then — 
As  summer  winds,  flapping  their  lazy  wings, 
Came  down  among  them  from  the  breezy  hill; 
The  vale  was  fresh  and  green  with  growing  things, 
And  peace,  such  peace  as  only  duty  brings, 
Sat  there  within  the  doorway  of  the  mill. 

Meanwhile  the  child-wife  grew  to  womanhood, 
Unfolding  with  her  life  but  half  complete, 
Although  she  knew  it  not— her  willing  feet. 
And  hands  as  willing,  doing  naught  but  good. 
And  was  she  beautiful?    'Tis  woman-like 
To  ask  the  question.    Yes;  yet  none  could  tell 
Wherein  her  beauty  lay.    I  could  not  strike 
Her  picture,  had  I  all  the  thousand  dyes 
That  paint  the  air.    Black  were  her  eyes — 
This  I  remember — with  softly  gleaming  lights 
Trembling  within  their  depths,  as  in  a  well 
You  catch  the  gleam  of  stars  on  summer  nights. 

You  grow  impatient,  and  you  wonder  why 

I  do  not  tell  my  story,  and  have  done. 

I  pray  your  patience — 'tis  so  sad  a  one, 

I  linger  at  its  borders  tremblingly. 

But  here  it  is:    On  one  ill-fated  morn, 

A  senseless  form  was  laid  beneath  her  roof, 

Bleeding  and  bruised,  with  garments  smeared  and  torn, 

And  clotted  hair,  all  red  with  ghastly  gore. 


WALLS  OF  CORN  AND  OTHER  POEMS. 


"Here,  Annabelle,"  said  John,  and  said  no  more; 
lie  knew  her  tender  heart — it  was  enough. 

Asking  no  questions,  with  her  gentle  hatuU 

She  washed  the  blood  from  the  pale,  swollen  face, 

And  from  the  matted  hair,  and  sought  apace 

To  win  him  back  to  life.    The  loosened  bands 

Tightened  at  last;  the  silent,  pulseless  wheel 

Of  life  turned  slowly  round:  he  opened  his  eyes — 

Blue  eyes  they  were — and  looked  with  blank  surprise 

On  the  kind  faces  bent  beside  the  bed: 

Asked  where  he  was,  and  how  he  came  to  feel 

So  bruised  and  battered — and  what  ailed  his  head? 

"  We  picked  you  up,"  said  John,  "  by  yonder  cliff — 
A  broken  limb,  bruised  head— if  that  is  all. 
I  saw  your  horse  take  fright,  and  shy  and  fall, 
Wrenching  a  sapling  from  its  rocky  bed. 
She  fell  beneath  you— so  did  save  your  life, 
We  hope  and  trust — the  noble  beast  is  dead." 

"Poor  Xan!"  the  stranger  sighed,  "I  loved  her  well; 
The  graceful  creature  was  my  truest  friend; 
And  I  could  weep  that  thus  should  be  her  end. 
What  frighted  her  I'm  sure  I  cannot  tell; 
She  never  once  her  foothold  lost  before, 
And  we  have  traversed  half  a  continent. 
I  do  remember  that  shs  shied — no  more. 
Poor  Nan!    Ah  well!  I  ought  to  be  content, 
And  bless  the  fates  that  brought  ms  to  your  door." 

The  surgeon  came  and  set  the  broken  limb, 

And  Annabelle  looked  on  with  pitying  eye 

The  while  her  tender  tears  fell  silently; 

And  thought  him  brave— admired  the  courage  griru 

That  bore  the  wrench  and  strain  unflinchingly. 

He  never  winced;  the  weakness  of  a  groan 

Parted  not  once  the  pallor  of  his  lip-. 


WALLS  OF  CORN  AND  OTHER  POEMS. 


So  still  he  lay,  but  for  clenched  finger-tips, 

You  might  have  thought  him  senseless  as  a  stone. 

A  woman's  pity  is  a  dangerous  thing — 
Most  when  its  softness  is  all  mixed  and  blent 
With  woman's  admiration.    Such  content 
It  hath  of  passion  and  of  tenderness, 
Which  from  its  tearful  dew  luxuriant  spring, 
That  she  who  feels  needs  double  guardedness 
O'er  her  heart's  citadel;  and  none  the  less 
When  in  that  heart  lie  mines  of  untold  wealth 
Unwrought  by  human  hand.    Its  great  largess 
Unlocked,  unguarded,  yields  to  subtle  stealth. 

For  weeks  the  stranger  lay,  fevered  and  ill, 
Tossing  at  times  in  wild  delirium, 
At  others,  lying  faint,  and  pale,  and  dumb, 
In  limp  exhaustion,  without  speech  or  will. 
Oft  in  his  fevered  ravings  he  would  talk 
Of  distant  scenes — a  spry-washed  seaside  home; 
Of  his  young  sisters— then  he  seemed  to  walk 
By  forest  streams,  or  mountain  passes  clomb; 
He  raved  of  the  Sierras;  tossed  a  rock 
Over  the  crags  toward  the  Western  Sea, 
Marked  its  reboundings  with  a  ghastly  glee, 
And  laughed  at  each  reverberating  shock. 

At  last  the  rires  burned  out.    Life  seemed  to  stand 
Poised  on  a  balance.    Breathless  days  he  lay, 
With  his  pale  brow  by  chill,  damp  breezes  fanned 
From  off  another  shore.    Within  the  shadows  dim 
That  fringe  the  skirts  of  that  uncertain  land 
From  whence  no  traveler  o'er  the  misty  rim 
Comes  with  returning  feet,  day  after  day 
He  lingered  at  the  borders,  as  if  Death, 
Putting  his  hot  sword  back  into  its  sheath- 
Having  won  fairly — scorned  to  take  his  prey. 


10  WALLS  OF  CORN  AND  OTHER  POEMS. 

Meanwhile  young  Annabelle,  watching  his  lightest  sigh, 
With  sleepless  eyes  above  his  pillow  hung; 
And  when  the  folded  portals  backward  swung, 
And  the  ebbed  tides  came  faintly  flowing  in, 
She  bowed  her  stately  head,  and  silently— 
So  glad  was  she  that  Life  at  last  should  win- 
Wept  tears  of  joy— such  tears  are  soonest  dry! 

Then  came  the  days,  so  slow  and  yet  so  swift, 

Of  convalescence — days  when  vanquished  pain 

Flees  back  among  the  shadows — when  again 

The  prostrate  forces  slowly,  feebly  lift, 

Like  the  bowed  spears  of  tempest-beaten  grain. 

When  Robert  Lome,  with  puzzled,  pleased  surprise, 

Did  ttrst  discover  what  a  lovely  nurse 

He  had,  marked— what  I've  told  you  in  my  verse — 

Her  dusky  ringlets  and  her  starry  eyes: 

And  then  he  wondered,  thought,  and  wondered  still, 

What  freak  of  fortune,  what  mistake  of  fate, 

Had  planted  such  a  regal  flower  as  that 

Within  the  shadow  of  a  dusty  mill. 

Such  thoughts  were  dangerous — like  her  pity.    Time 
Wore  on,  and  as  he  chafed  and  restless  grew, 
Impatient  of  his  weakness — 'tis  his  due 
To  say  he  had  been  patient  in  his  pain — 
She  brought  her  books,  and  tried  to  soothe  the  chime 
Of  flowing  measures  and  of  tender  rhyme; 
And  read  to  him,  in  cadence  clear  and  sweet, 
That  seemed  to  him,  in  its  low  rythmic  beat, 
Like  the  soft  footfalls  of  the  summer  rain. 

They  talked  together,  and  he  wondered  more, 
How  had  she  gathered  in  that  quiet  vale, 
Where  pompous  Learning  had  ne'er  swept  its  trail, 
Of  wit  and  wisdom  such  a  wondrous  store? 
He  drew  her  on,  and  sounded  hidden  wells, 
That  into  sparkling  streamlets  bubbled  o'er, 


WALLS  OF  CORN  AND  OTHER  POEMS. 


As  pure,  sweet  springs  that  never  flowed  before 

Start  at  a  touch  along  the  basky  dells. 

Her  inner  life — its  strange,  sweet  mysteries — 

Lay  all  unrolled  before  his  eager  eyes; 

So  frankly  talked  she— to  her  own  surprise— 

And  oft  her  laugh  rang  out  like  tinkling  bells. 

Swift  were  those  days,  without  a  thought  of  wrong — 
Days  that  on  swift  and  gilded  pinions  sped — 
Ere  Conscience  had  tolled  out  her  stern  alarm, 
And  pointed  to  the  rocks  that  loomed  ahead. 
Would  that  no  others  came  into  my  song! 
You  see  what  baleful  shadow,  dire  and  dim, 
Hovered  about  the  sick-room;  stole  apace 
Into  the  unbarred  door,  and  held  the  place? 
It  came  to  this — he  loved  her,  she  loved  him. 

There  came  an  hour  when  but  a  little  thing — 
A  thoughtless  act,  and  innocent,  because 
It  held  no  guilty  thought  of  broken  laws — 
Revealed  it  to  them  both.    He  was  asleep— 
At  least,  she  thought  he  was — the  fanning  wing 
Of  a  stray  breeze  tossing  the  chestnut  hair 
That  lay  about  his  brow;  and  Annabelle 
Rising  to  leave  the  room,  just  stooped  her  there, 
Softly  put  back  the  clusters,  and  then— well, 
She  laid  her  cheek  upon  it.    Then  the  bell 
Of  warning  sounded — but  it  rang  too  late. 
She  felt  a  thrill  that  never  once  before 
Had  stirred  her  heart — that  never,  nevermore 
Must  stir  it  thus  again.    Alas,  the  fate 
That  had  withheld  such  sweetness  till  too  late! 

Then  knew  he  that  she  loved  him — raised  his  arms, 
And  would  have  clasped  her,  but  she  turned, 
While  all  her  face  with  painful  blushes  burned, 
And  left  him— with  a  thousand  vague  alarms 


\2  WALLS  OF  CORN  AN'D  OTHER  POEMS. 

T<> -sing  the  heart,  which,  at  that  mute  caiv» 
Had.  for  onejmoment,  leaped  with  happiness. 

Thenceforth  her  manner  changed.    She  silent  grew, 

And  often  met  with  an  averted  eye 

His  questioning  look:  and  well  and  faithfully 

Strove  with  her  foe,  determined  to  subdue. 

Meanwhile  the  man  grew  strong.     His  hurts  were  well, 

And  the  soft  tints  of  health  began  to  come 

Across  the  sunken  pallor  of  his  cheek. 

He  took  slow  walks — still  further  cure  to  seek  — 

Adown  the  brook,  and  through  the  grassy  dell, 

And  soon  began  to  talk  of  going  home. 

"'Tis  a  long  journey,"  said  the  miller,  "wait 
Awhile;  be  not  in  haste  to  go,  I  pray. 
You  had  best  tarry  and  submit  to  fate," 
Laughed  he,  ''till  you  have  strength  to  shut  the  gate— 
(He  just  had  left  it  wide)  you've  not  to-day." 
Poor  man!  he  little  knew  what  meaning  fell 
From  out  his  careless  banter,  on  the  ears 
Of  guest  and  wife.    No  truant,  tell-tale  tears 
Sprang  to  her  eyes;  she  kept  her  bosom's  strife 
On  its  own  battle-field,  and  marshalled  well 
Her  gathered  forces,  even  while  a  knell, 
Struck  on  her  heartstrings,  sent  its  hollow  toll 
In  sobbing  shudders  through  her  inmost  soul. 
There  lay  her  dead— a  scathed  and  blighted  life. 

"  If  go  you  must,"  said  honest  Jghn,  "Good  bye, 
The  mill  awaits  me  with  its  silent  wheels: 
The  summer  morn  with  quiet  footstep  steals 
Quickly  away,  and  so,  perforce,  must  I." 

"Farewell,"  said  Robert  Lome,  "My  thanks  accept 
For  all  your  kindness.    I  shall  hold  it  well, 
With  grateful  care,  among  my  treasures  kept." 

"Small  thanks  to  me,"  said  John,  "the  praise  is  due 


WALLS  OF  CORN  AND  OTHER  POEMS. 


To  yonder  tireless  nurse  who  tended  you; 
With  her  I  leave  you— talk  to  Annabelle.' 

So  briskly  toward  the  mill  he  walked  away, 
Humming  a  tune  in  careless,  happy  tone, 
Leaving  the  two,  and  so  they  stood  alone. 
What  could  they  do?  and  what  could  either  say? 
Only  good  bye?    Had  they  but  said  no  more, 
Love  might  have  died  a  silent,  smothered  death, 
Like  smouldering  embers  where  there  stirs  no  breath. 
But  words  are  flame;  once  given  vent  and  space, 
The  fiery  tide  fast  overleaps  its  shore, 
And  seldom  ebbs  again  into  its  place. 

One  silent  moment— save  the  throbbing  beat 
With  which  two  hearts  kept  time — and  then  he  came 
And  stood  beside  her,  trembling.     "I  can  tame," 
Slid  he,  "the  wild  mustang,  though  strong  and  fleet, 
But  cannot  tame  my  heart.    Turn  not  away, 
That  sad,  pale  face.    Hear  me  this  once,  I  pray, 
For  I  must  spsak  or  die,  though  years  too  late. 
John  Dent  spoke  truly,  though  he  little  knew 
How  what  he  said  was  doubly,  direly  true; 
I  have  not  strength  enough  to  shut  the  gate." 

I  know  you  love  me — nay,  hide  not  your  fBce. 

Drop  not  your  eye— 'tis  veiled  e'en  now  with  tears. 

Let  me  look  deep  into  its  starry  glow 

Once  more— it  is  the  last,  last  time  you  know! 

I  knew  you  loved  me,  when,  with  tender  grace, 

You  stooped  and  touched  me  witn  your  cheek.  The  years, 

Many  or  few,  that  slowly  come  and  go, 

One  thing  they  cannot  take  with  them.      I  shall  keep, 

Hidden  with  my  lone  heart's  deepest  deep, 

The  memory  of  one  moment's  happiness, 

When  thrilled  my  whole  soul  to  that  soft  caress." 

"'You  should  not  say' such  things  to  me!"  she  said. 
Entreaty  and  reproach  were  in  her  look; 


14  WALLS  OF  CORN  AND  OTHER  POEMS. 

Her  face  was  deadly  pale,  her  whole  frame  shook. 
"  You  see  my  weakness,  which  I  seek  to  tread 
With  all  my  gathered  strength  beneath  my  feet; 
The  task  is  hard  enough— why  will  you  add 
Strength  to  my  enemy,  and  steal  my  own':1 
Leave  me,  I  pray,  and  let  me  tight  alone 
The  weary  battle— I  am  sick  and  sad." 

"Poor  little  one!"  he  said.     "I  pity  you 
From  my  heart's  core — but  do  myself  as  well. 
How  it  shall  fare  with  me  I  cannot  tell; 
But  you  will  be  to  every  duty  true, 
And  go  your  daily  ways  like  some  sweet  saint : 
With  feet  that  never  falter,  though  you  faint. 
You,  but  a  weak  woman,  will  a  foe  subdue 
That  conquers  me — I  cannot  be  like  you." 

"  'Tis  only  to  endure,"  she  said.     "The  pain 
Will  soon  be  over.    We  must  take 
The  sequence  of  our  folly.    Those  that  make, 
As  we  have  made,  shipwreck  of  happiness, 
Must  fare  without  it.    Life  is  not  so  long— 
What  signifies  a  heartache  more  or  less? 
A  few  wild  throbs  that  wrench  the  breast  and  brain, 
Then— if  we  conquer — cometh  the  calm  of  peace, 
Next,  that  of  death,  and  then— all  struggles  cease." 

"'Tis  a  sad  end  that  only  comes  with  death! 
I  think  the  saddest  thing  that  mortals  know 
Is  such  a  love,  that  only  endeth  so. 
O  Annabelle!-down  to  my  latest  breath 
Must  I  endure  this  wrong — the  perfect  mate 
After  long  years  of  waiting  found  too  late? 
Matches,  they  say,  are  made  in  Heaven  above, 
Where  hearts  are  wed.    If  marriage  is  but  love, 
All  other  marriage,  then,  must  spurious  be, 
And  you,  before  high  Heaven,  belong  to  me!" 


WALLS  OF  CORN  AND  OTHER  POEMS. 


"Forbear!"'  the  woman  cried,  '"Twas  hard  before; 
'Tis  cruel  that  you  add  such  agony, 
Heaping  it  high  upon  my  misery. 
O  cease,  and  leave  me — I  can  bear  no  more!" 

"I  go,  but  once,  just  once  your  heart  shall  throb, 
Where  it  should  always  throb,  close  up  to  mine." 
He  clasped  her  close,  and  while  sob  after  sob 
Shook  her  from  head  to  foot,  on  brow  and  neck, 
On  tear-wet  cheek,  and  pale  and  quivering  lip, 
Pressed  passionate  kisses.     Little  did  lie  reck 
In  that  mad  moment  of  the  bitter  drip 
So  sure  to  follow  that  one  drop  of  wine! 

You  blame  such  madness?  so  do  I,  but  then 

Poor  human  nature,  wrenched  and  passion-tossed, 

At  best  intent  too  often  goes  astray. 

We  little  know  how  much  own,  so  crossed, 

Could  bear — whether  the  strength,  which  in  our  day 

Of  sunny  peace  seems  so  secure,  could  stand 

Amid  the  sweeping  storm,  and  hold  at  bay 

The  rush  of  whirlwinds,  tempest-driven  rain, 

And  the  forked  lightning,  with  its  flery  hand. 

We  know  not,  until  tried,  I  say  again, 

What  we  can  bear— we -all  have  need  to  pray. 

At  last  he  whispered  hoarsely,  "Fare  thee  well. 
Earth  holds  no  parting  half  so  sad  as  this. 
Would  it  had  been  but  death!  no  tolling  bell 
Did  ever  utter  forth  such  wretchedness! 
You  will  find  peace— such  peace  as  waits  to  bless 
Enduring  patience;  but,  oh  Annabelle! 
Sometimes  when,  in  your  saintly  purity, 
At  the  still  evening  hour  you  kneel  to  pray, 
Remember  and  ask  pity,  too,  for  me." 
He  loosed  hj,s  arms,  then  turned  and  rushed  away. 
She  stood  and  watched  him  from  the  open  door — 
Once  stretched  her  hands  ('twas  well  he  did  not  see) 


K,  WALLS  OF  CORN   AND  OTHER  POEMS. 


As  it'  to  call  him  back  cried.  ••\\<,<-  j>  m,-: 

I  never.  never  sh.ill  Ivhold  liim  more!" 

Then  she  caught  up  her  boy.  and  held  him  [tressed. 

While  she  wept  wildly,  to  her  aching  l>rea>t. 

******** 

A  year  had  flown  on  slow  and  quiet  wing 

Al)ove  the  vine-wreathed  cottage  by  the  mill: 

Again  the  wild  rose  all  along  the  hill 

Hung  out  its  lavish  blossoms.     All  the  ground 

Was  spread  with  summer's  richness:  on  the  wing 

The  wild  bird  sang— and  still  the  wheels  went  round. 

It  was  a  fragrant  morning;  every  breath  of  air 

Was  laden  with  the  breezy  scants  of  pine. 

From  out  the  open  casement  a  low  tune 

Came  softly  floating,  like  a  tender  prayer  — 

The  wife  was  singing  at  her  daily  care. 

Just  shadowed  was  her  brow  with  pensive  thought, 

Yet  was  it  calm  and  smooth  and  purely  fair— 

'Twas  plain  had  come  to  her  the  peace  she  sought. 

But  how  fared  Robert  Dome?    Not  quite  so  well, 
With  restless  foot  that  never  ceased  to  roam. 
He  wandered  widely,  and  no  chosen  home 
Found  anywhere.    The  ocean's  heaving  swell 
Best  suited  him;  and  mountain  heights 
Swept  by  wild  tempests;  stormy  nights. 
When  shook  and  jarred  the  everlasting  hills 
Beneath  the  tread  of  thunders,  when  the  glare 
Of  the  red  lightnings  lit  the  midnight  air, 
And  sweeping  torrents  tore  the  mountain  side 
These  chimed  with  his  dark  mood.    But  peaceful  val< 
And  silent  rivers  with  their  gentle  glide, 
And  sleeping  lakes,  flecked  with  snowy  sails 
Of  floating  ship-:  the  calm  of  eventide- 
All  scenes  of  quiet— in  his  feverish  soul 
But  stirred  the  demon  of  unrest.    The  bowl 
Of  fierce  excitement,  with  a  rest  less  t  hirst. 


WALLS  OF  CORN  AND  OTHER  POEMS. 

Deeply  he  quaffed,  yet  still,  as  at  the  first. 
He  thirsted.  At  last,  heart  sick  and  sore, 
When  utter  weariness  had  done  its  worst, 
lie  turned  his  face  toward  his  native  shore. 

"Once  more,"  he  thought,  "to  look  upon  her  face 
Unseen  by  her.     I  will  not  break  the  calm 
Which  she,  mayhap,  hath  found.    Her  tender  palm 
She  need  not  lift  to  warn  me  from  the  place. 
Hut  once  to  watch  her  in  her  gentle  grace, 
Twining,  perchance,  the  roses  at  her  door. 
It  shall  be  only  once — I'll  dare  no  more." 

And  so  it  chanced,  that  breezy  morn  of  June, 
Crouching  within  the  copse  that  crowned  the  hill, 
He  listened  to  the  low  and  pensive  tune 
That  floated  through  the  casement.    Waiting  still, 
He  saw  not,  though  he  heard  her.     Finally 
She  come  within  the  doorway — raised  her  hand 
To  shade  her  eyes,  and,  with  a  startled  look, 
<Jaxed  down  the  beaten  pathway  by  the  brook. 
He  wondered  at  her  air.     What  did  she  see? 
Following  her  eye  with  his,  lie  saw  a  man 
With  wild,  excited  mien,  and  hurried  tread. 
Approach  to  where  she  stood — heard  what  he  said: 
"Your  husband,  madam!  quickly  as  you  can 
Come  to  the  mill.     He's  hurt,  and  well  nigh  dead." 

Swiftly  she  flew,  as  if  her  feet  had  wings, 

To  where  he  lay.     He  saw,  looked  up,  and  smiled; 

Whispered  "  God  keep  my  wife  and  child!  " 

Then  closed  his  eyes  upon  all  earthly  things. 

Then  swept  across  her  soul  a  grief  so  wild 

That  reason  nearly,  reeled.     Regret,  remorse, 

Uttered  accusing  voices.     Had  she  been 

Within  her  secret  hea'rt  a  loyal  wife, 

She  had  not  felt  the  .pain,  sit  swift  and  keen. 

That  cut  her  conscience  like  a  two-edged  knife. 


WALLS  OF  CORN  AND  OTHER  POEMS. 


Tin-  sight,  the  sound,  were  pitiful!  a  low  moan 
Came  from  the  set,  white  lips;  no  tears  she  shed, 
Hut  gazed  with  stony  look  upon  the  dead. 
At  last  a  voice,  in  low  and  husky  tone: 
••  Take  her  away.     Do  you  not  see,"  it  said. 
That  this  is  killing  her?''    She  raised  her  eyes 
with  one  quick  glance  of  sudden,  shocked  surprise; 
Saw  it  was  he,  and  fainted  on  the  corse. 

He  came  not  near  her  in  her  grief,  but  when 
The  day  of  burial  come,  he  watched  afar, 
With  strange  emotions  in  his  heart  at  war. 
He  saw  her,  sable-clad  and  drooping,  stand 
Heside  the  open  gra\v.  clasping  the  had 
Of  her  half-orphaned  boy,  and  pitied  her — 
So  s:id,  so  drooping,  did  she  seem— but  then 
There  crossed  his  pity  a  wild  wave  of  joy, 
(Albeit  remorse  cams  in  with  its  alloy), 
That  howsoever  stricken,  she  was/ree. 

••  Sure  none  may  claim  her  now,"  he  thought,  "  but  me! 
A  month  went  by.  and  then  a  letter  came, 
'iVlling  her  that  when  the  year  was  done, 
Its  last  day  faded,  its  last  setting  sun 
(rone  out  of  sight  with  it-;  last  hues  of  flame, 
She  might  expect  him  at  her  cottage  door. 

••  Fail  not,"  it  said,  "  to  look  for  me  at  even: 

If  living,  you  will  see  me  —  not  before. 
I  well  can  wait  a  year  without  complaint, 
With  hope  to  lighten  witli  its  joyous  leaven  — 
I  who  did  think  to  wait  forever  more! 
Though  love  is  haste,  it  still  hath  self-restraint: 
And  not  a  slander,  not  a  breath  of  taint. 
Must  soil  the  plumage  of  my  bird  of  heaven!" 
******* 

The  year  at  last  had  fled.    The  scents  of  June 
Once  more  went  floating  softly  down  the  dell; 


WALLS  OF  CORN  AND  OTHER  POEMS. 


Once  more  the  tall  grass  rocked  beneath  the  swell 

Of  summer  winds;  in  noisy  babbling  tune, 

The  brook  came  singing  from  the  creaking  mill: 

And  once  again,  along  the  beetling  hill, 

The  wild  rose  hung  its  pennons.     Evening  fell: 

The  sunset  faded,  and  the  summer  moon 

Rose  calmly,  and  hung  out  her  silver  shield 

Athwart  the  dusky  bosom  of  the  night. 

One  star,  and  then  another,  in  the  field 

Of  heaven  came  out  and  blossomed  into  light. 

Silence  unbroken  hung  about  the  door 

Of  the  lone  cottage,  only  and  o'er  and  o'er 

From  out  the  lone  shadows  one  sad  whippowil 

Sang  his  night-song,  so  plaintive,  yet  so  shrill; 

And  the  brook  babied  to  its  sedgy  shore. 

Within  sits  Annabelle,  and  counts  the  ticks 
That  measure  of  the  travel,  step  by  step, 
Of  the  slow  laggard,  Time.     In  rosy  sleep 
Her  play-tired  darling  lies.    A  silence  deep — 
The  silence  of  hushed  waiting  wraps  her  round, 
She  listens  for  a  footstep,  for  a  sound  beside; 
Both  come  at  last.     The  low  gate  clicks: 

Upon  the  gravelled  walk  a  manly  tread, 

Firm,  eager,  then  a  quick  rap  at  the  door: 

Then,  "  Robert!  "  "  Annabelle!  "—and  then  no  more 

In  those  first  moments  is  by  either  said. 

What  need  of  words  ?    Her  head  is  on  his  breast. 

His  arms  about  her,  and  both  hearts  at  rest. 

What  need,  when  each  knew  all  that  each  could  say! 

Thus,  deep  emotion  with  its  fetters  flung 

About  the  speech,  hath  oft  "  tied  fast  the  tongue." 

Love,  like  a  brook,  starts  singing  on  its  way, 

Ripples  and  murmurs  in  its  shallow  play; 

Like  a  deep  river  when  it  meets  the  sea. 

It  rolls  into  its  ocean  silentlv. 


WALLS  OF  CORN   AND  OTHER  POEMS. 

« 

Again  the  wedding  bells,  above  the  town 
And  through  the  valley,  where  a  year  ago 
Sobbed  forth  a  funeral  knell  so  sad  and  slow. 
Pealed  out  in  I  limbs  of  joy.     Love  wore  its  crown 
In  solemn  awe;  for  well  did  those  two  know 
How  in  its  hunger  it  had  wronged  the  dead. 
Yet  both  had  sought  to  quench  it;  both  had  tried 
To  kill  a  deathless  thing  which  had  not  died. 
Their  joy  was  born  of  sorrow.    Solemnly 
They  hold  in  close  embrace  their  child  of  tear-. 
The  bride  is  pale  though  lovely.    Shadows  lie 
Within  her  glorious  eyes,  she  trembles,  fenr-. 
Amid  her  joy  half  shivers  as  with  dread; 
And  yet  the  words  she  utters  now  are  true. 
It  is  her  heart  that  speaks—this  time  she  knew 
The  full,  sweet  meaning  of  the  words  she  said. 

They  went  away:  and  now  in  foreign  lands, 
Through  storied  scenes  they  wander  at  their  will. 
They  hear  no  more  the  clatter  of  the  mill, 
Although  it  still  grinds  on.    The  cottage  stands 
Lonely  and  desolate,  and  no  one  heeds 
The  smothered  flowers  that  choke  amid  the  weeds. 
Will  they  come  back  again  ?    I  cannot  say. 
I  fancy  that  they  dread,  not  love,  the  spot. 
My  story  ends  —  a  strange  one,  is  it  not? 

The  twilight  falls.    The  moon  hangs  o'er  the  hill: 
The  brook  goes  darkly  down  its  winding  way; 
Ceased  for  the  day  is  the  clatter  of  the  mill; 
Along  the  valley  stretch  the  shadows  gray; 
And  you,  I  see,  are  weeping.    Come  away. 


WALLS  OF  CORN  AND  OTHER  POEMS. 


The  Mortgage  —  A  Christmas  Tale. 

A  Christmas  eve.    The  white  stars  glow 

Afar  in  the  deep,  dark  sky; 
The  moonbeams  sparkle  on  the  frozen  snow, 

Arid  the  merry  bells  go  by. 

Love  scatters  gifts,  and  voices  gay 

Ring  out  in  laughter  sweet, 
Amid  the  scamper  of  children's  play, 

And  the  tread  of  dancing  feet. 

While  happy  childhood  hugs  its  toy, 

And  the  windows  blaze  with  light, 
And  the  little  town  goes  wild  with  joy — 

Is  any  one  sad  to-night  ? 

***** 
A  farm  house,  where  the  village  street 

Turns  to  a  country  road, 
Where  sleighs  go  skimming,  smooth  and  fleet, 

Each  with  its  merry  load. 

Within,  no  sound  of  festal  mirth- 
No  lights  flash  out  on  the  snow, 

Two  old  folks  cower  above  the  hearth— 
Their  two  gray  heads  bowed  low. 

Why  sit  they  so,  beside  the  fire, 

Speaking  but  words  of  grief '? 
Trouble  is  on  them,  dark  and  dire— 

A  mortgage  —  and  grace  is  brief. 

And  that  not  all,  that  not  the  worst. 
"  O,  John!  our  John!  "  cries  she. 
"  Had  we  but  the  boy  I  bore  and  nursed, 
We  never  should  homeless  be. 

"  Dead  in  the  mountains,  blea"k  and  cold— 
Unburied  for  aught  we  know — 


22  WALLS  OF  CORN  AND  OTHER  POEMS. 


Alas,  and  alas  for  the  quest  of  gold. 

And  the  cruel  cold  and  snow! " 

***** 
Up  in  a  town  a  moneyed  man, 

In  his  mansion  tall  and  grand, 
Knits  his  brow  as  he  stoops  to  scan 

A  paper  in  his  hand. 

"  I'll  do  it,  I'll  do  it,"  be  softly  said. 
"  Their  grief  shall  be  touched  with  joy. 
'Twill  pluck  one  thorn  from  my  dying  bed- 
And  Winnie — she  loved  the  boy." 

He  knew  the  sorrow  she  did  not  tell; 

He  knew,  and  it  grieved  him  sore. 
(  The  old  man  loved  his  ducats  well, 

But  he  loved  his  daughter  more.) 

"  Winnie,  Winnie! "  he  called,  "come  here." 

The  daughter  came  slowly  in, 
Pale  as  a  lily  on  the  mere, 
Her  wan  cheeks  hollow  and  thin. 

li  Your  Christmas  gift,  my  little  maid; 

See — do  you  understand  ? 
'Tis  all  your  own,"  ho  said,  and  laid 
The  paper  in  her  hand. 

A  glance,  a  flush  of  grand  surprise, 

A  word  of  thanks  —  but  one. 
The  tears  were  streaming  from  her  eyes. 

Her  arms  about  him  thrown. 

"  Go,  love,''  he  said,  "  the  streets  are  light/' 

And  led  her  to  the  door. 
"  You  know  whose  hearts  are  sad  to-night  - 
I  need  not  tell  you  more." 

***** 
Still  sat,  before  the  dull  red  flamer 
Those  two,  so  bowed  and  gray: 


WALLS  OF  CORN  AND  OTHER  POEMS. 


And  ere  they  heard  or  saw  who  came, 
At  their  feet  a  paper  lay. 

••  Dear  friends,  I  bring  my  Christmas  gift— 

The  mortgage — there  it  lies." 
She  seized  it — "  See  the  mortgage  lift! 
'Tis  burnt  before  our  eyes." 

Such  blessings  as  in  showers  fell 
On  that  sobbing  maiden's  head 

Not  tongue  or  pen  of  mine  can  tell, 
Nor  the  loving  things  they  said. 

And  now  (this  is  a  wondrous  night!) 

At  the  door  a  step  is  heard. 
The  three  spring  upright,  still  and  white, 

And  ga/e,  but  speak  no  word. 

So  gaunt,  so  pale  his  visage  shows — 

'Tis  John,  and  yet  not  he — 
Till  close  he  comes,  and,  laughing,  throws 

His  arms  around  the  three. 

"  And  so  you  thought  me  dead" — (at  last)— 
"  'Twas  fever,  and  not  the  cold, 
That  laid  me  low  and  held  me  fast, 
In  the  far-off  land  of  gold. 

"  The  mortgage ?    It  went  up  in  flame  V 

Sorry  for  that,"  he  said. 
"  No  matter,  though;  'tis  all  the  same — 

To-morrow  it  shall  be  paid." 

The  curtain  falls.    No  need  to  tell 

Of  the  joyous  feast  that  night: 
Of  the  thankful  hymns  that  rose  and  fell; 

Of  the  maiden's  shy  delight; 
Or  how,  ere  closed  another  day, 

The  rich  man  was  paid  in  gold; 
Or  how  he  gave  his  daughter  away 

To  a  bridegroom  frank  and  bold. 


24          WALLS  OF  CORN  AND  OTHER  PoK.MS. 


Night. 

Come  nearer;  I  would  feel  your  loving  presence: 
While  closer,  closer  drops  a  shadowy  wing 
Not  to  be  lifted  more.    Loop  up  the  curtain, 
So;  for  I  would  look  once  more  upon  the  spring. 
And  catch  her  warm,  bright  smile  before  I  go. 
And  'tis  the  last,  last  time  you  know. 

See,  love,  how  softly  gleams  the  golden  sunset- 
How  gently  doth  the  day  resign  its  throne! 
It  seems  like  faith!    As  if  a  gleam  of  morning 
Athwart  the  night's  advancing  darkness  shone. 
And  yonder  soars  a  bird;  hark!  how  he  sings, 
E'en  while  the  cold  dews  gather  on  his  wings! 

So  would  I  sing;  as  nearer  yet  and  nearer 

This  last  night  gathers,  and  the  sun  goes  down; 

But  oh,  my  strength  is  gone!    Sing  for  me,  dearest, 

A  song  about  the  Day  Star  and  a  Crown, 

And  the  near  dawn,  with  its  transcendent  glow: 

It  is  not  far  beyond  the  night,  I  know. 

You  cannot  sing?  and  yet  you  are  not  weeping; 

Your  calm  is  dreadful— like  a  beaten  sea 

When  rirst  the  storm  scoops  down!  the  wild  recoiling 

Of  gathered  waves  will  come,  and  fiercer  be 

For  this  dread  hush,  this  anguish  still  and  deep. 

There's  healing  comes  of  tears— would  you  could  weep! 

(Jrieve  not  so  terribly;  this  bitter  parting 

That  bows  you  so  is  only  for  a  night, 

Beyond  it  lies  the  radiant  To-morrow, 

With  sweet,  clear  skies,  forever  calm  and  bright. 

Then  wait  in  patience:  grief  is  short,  and  pain. 

But  joy  i«  long— we  shall  not  part  again. 


WALLS  OF  CORN  AND  OTHER  POEMS. 


I  need  not  ;isk  that  you  will  not  forget  me, 
While  the  world  whelms  von  with  its  tide  of  care: 
Your  empty  arms,  I  know,  will  reach  to  fold  me 
Oft  in  your  dreams,  and  clasp  but  empty  air. 


I  cannot  see  you  now:  fast  fades  the  light — 
•Still  hold  my  hand— now  kiss  me— so.  good  night. 


The   Stepmother. 

Bride  of  a  week,  my  arms,  unused  to  holding, 
Clasp  a  bright  boy  that  sits  upon  my  knee: 

And  to  my  neck  a  brown-haired  girl  is  clinging, 
Calling  me  mamma— strange  it  seems  to  me! 

The  boy's  brown  eyes  look  up  to  mine  in  wonder 
To  see  the  tears  fall  softly,  one  by  one, 

I  'pon  his  shining  curls.     I  fold  him  closer, 
And  ponder  well  my  work,  just  begun. 

Oh,  what  am  I,  that  I  have  undertaken 
This  thing  so  great,  and  that  so  few  can  do — 

Always  to  act  the  mother  true  and  tender, 
Without  the  throbbing  bliss  that  mother's  know! 

And  this  is  why  I  sit  here  softly  weeping, 
One  clinging  to  my  neck,  one  to  my  knee: 

Trembling  lest  human  weakness  shrink  and  falter, 
Thinking  they  have  no  mother  now  but  me! 


Another  twilight.    Springs  have  bloomed  and  faded, 
Long  summers  trailed  their  glory  o'er  the  land: 

Again  I  sit  and  think.    A  tall  young  stripling 
Kneels  at  my  side,  and  closely  clasps  my  hand. 


WALLS  OF  CORN  AND  OTHER  POK.Ms. 


The  same  brown  eyes,  alight  with  loving  glanok>. 

The  same  bright  curls  that  decked  the  baby  boy— 
And  fair  eighteen,  with  merry,  teasing  kis-.. •-. 

Toys  with  my  hair,  and  laughs  in  girlish  joy. 

They  say  that  I  have  been  a  faithful  mother, 
They  say  that  I  have  done  my  duty  well. 

And  yet  I  know— which  they  do  not— the  failures, 
The  staggering  weakness  that  no  tongue  can  tell! 

Adown  the  backward  years  so  many  errors 
Start  up  to  view  before  my  searching  eyes! 

I  know  that  I  have  not  been  always  tender, 
Always  unselfish,  nor  yet  always  wise. 

But  one  has  stood,  a  tower  of  strength  beside  me- 
He  for  whose  sake  I  took  my  work  to  do. 

When  for  an  hour  I  have  failed  and  faltered, 
His  arm  upbore,  his  love  sustained  me  through. 

And  now,  e'en  knowing,  as  1  know  the  failures, 
The  war  with  self,  the  faith  oft  faint  and  dim: 

Could  all  these  years  be  blotted — were  I  standing 
I  'nfettered,  free,  still  would  I  dare— for  him. 


WALLS  OF  CORN  AND  OTHER  POEMS. 


The  Fields  of   Corn. 

The  harvest  ends,  and  the  song  of  the  reaper 

Dies  away  to  its  closing  strain. 
Skies  of  the  midsummer,  hotter  and  deeper. 

Bend  over  shorn  fields  and  shocks  of  grain. 

Fierce  is  the  breath  of  the  July  weather; 

Tropic  heats  on  the  wind  are  borne: 
The  grass  and  the  clover  are  dying  together: 

Yet  brave  and  green  stands  the  fields  of  corn. 

Brave  and  green,  and  with  banners  streaming. 

Wooing  the  breezes  at  hottest  noon; 
Wider  flung  when  the  world  is  dreaming. 

Spreading  broadly  beneath  the  moon. 

The  days  are  cloudless,  the  air  aquiver, 
Palpatant,  pulsing  with  waves  of  heat; 

Crispy  the  aspen  leaves  quake  and  shiver. 
The  cracked  earth  scorches  unwary  feet. 

The  brown  thrush,  silent,  flits  through  the  hedges, 
Mute  in  their  covert*  the  wood-birds  hide: 

Farther  the  creek  shrinks  back  from  its  edges, 
The  springs  cease  flowing,  the  wells  are  dried. 

Still,  while  the  grass  and  clover  are  dying. 

With  strong  roots  deep  in  the  prairie's  breast. 
Plumed  and  tassled  with  banners  flying, 

The  tall  corn  tosses  eacli  lordly  crest. 

Enter  the  field,  a  forest  hangs  over; 

Seen  from  above,  'tis  a  dark  green  sea. 
Gleaming  with  lights  where  the  sun,  like  a  lover, 

Showers  his  kisses  so  fierce  and  so  free. 

Lo,  through  the  cornfields  a  miracle  passes. 
Vainly  attempted  by  magic  of  old. 


WALLS  OF  CORN  AND  OTHER  1'oi.MS 


Sunlight  and  salts  and  invisible  Basses 
Here  are  transmitted  to  l>ars  of  gold. 

Triumph  of  alchemy:  daily  and  nightly 
Wrought  on  tlie  silence  before  our  e.\  ••>. 

Miracle,  yet  do  we  note  it  lightly: 
Wonders  familiar  w.ike  no  surpris:'. 

Sole  dependence  of  many  a  toiler, 

Watching  the  night,  noon  and  morn  skies, 

Fearing,  trembling,  lest  the  drouth,  the  spoiler, 
Scar  with  hot  fingers  the  fields  of  corn. 


Si.ill,  as  yet,  while  the  clover  is 

While  the  buds  fall  dead  e'er  the  flowers  are  burn. 
With  life  intact,  and  witli  banners  Hying, 

Green  and  beautiful  stands  the  corn. 


To  Mary. 

>iy  heart  is  back  in  the  past,  to-night, 
As  1  sit  in  the  twilight  dim  and  pale; 

The  wide,  brown  prairie  is  vanished  quite. 

And  another  land  steals  on  my  sight, 

With  wooded  hill-top  and  sheltered  vale. 

Down  in  the  hollow  a  village  lies. 

With  its  peaceful  dwellings  white  and  brown; 
And  I  see,  as  1  scan  it  with  loving  eyes- 
Save  here  and  there  some  slight  surprise- 
But  little  change  in  the  dear  old  town. 

Yet  some  dear  faces  1  see  not  there- 
Faces  of  friends  that  I  used  to  know- 
Some  that  were  dark  and  some  that  were  fair. 
I  miss  them  sore,  and  I  question  where 
Are  those  that  I  loved,  long,  long  ago. 


WALLS  OF  CORN  AND  OTHER  POEMS. 


Up  on  a  hillside,  near  the  town, 

In  a  silent  city,  with  portals  low, 
Under  creeping  grasses,  now  sear  and  brown. 
Under  soft,  gray  mosses,  that  long  have  grown, — 

Here  lie  some  that  I  used  to  know. 

And  you— O,  friend,  whom  I  loved  so  well, 

Whom  still  I  have  loved,  through  all  these  years! 
Your  heart  has  bled,  while  a  sorrowful  knell 
Slowly  throbbed  from  the  old  church  bell, 
You  have  shed  in  loneliness  bitter  tears. 

And  how  fare  you  now?    Is  life  still  sweet? 

When  the  sun  set  did  the  stars  arise? 
Are  the  paths  made  smooth  for  your  willing  feet? 
Are  you  strong  the  allotted  task  to  meet? 

Has  the  smile  returned  to  your  lips  and  eyes? 

Would  I  could  see  you,  and  clasp  your  hand, 
And  look  in  your  face  as  I  used  to  do! 

But  swollen  rivers,  mighty  and  grand, 

And  many  and  many  a  league  of  land, 
Between  us  lie,  while  I  question  you. 


30  WALLS  OF     CORN  AND  OTHKR   1'OF.MS. 


The  Tower  of  Silence. 

High  on  the  cool,  green  summit  of  a  hill 

That  crowns  a  footspur  of  the  Western  Ghauts. 

There  stands  a  lonely  tower.     A  grove  of  palms 

Clusters  about  its  foot,  and  far  below 

The  warm  waves  lap  the  gorgeous  tropic  shore 

Of  rich  Bombay.    Strong,  close-clamped  iron  bars. 

Netted  and  intersected,  crown  its  top, 

And  deep  and  dark  beneath  there  sleeps  a  well. 

This  strange,  weird  thing — this  high  ;m<l  silent  tower, 
That  looks  down  on  the  city  and  the  sea 
ls  not  a  temple,  nor  a  monument, 
Nor  yet  is  it  a  seat  where  telescopes 
Are  pointed  skyward.    'Tis  a  common  tomb! 

Pfere,  while  the  fetid  flame  of  Hindoo  pyres 
Blaze  on  the  plains  below,  and  while  the  sea 
Utters  its  solemn  dirges  by  the  shore, 
The  Parsees  bring  their  dead.    No  graves  are  dug; 
No  cool,  fresh  turf,  in  its  soft  tenderness. 
About  the  sleeper  flings  its  garments  green. 
Here,  high  in  the  air,  beneath  the  solemn  stars, 
With  faces  smiling  ghastly  to  the  moon- 
Now  bathed  in  night  dews,  now  in  noontide  heats- 
Lie  in  grim  state  the  devotees  of  flre. 
Glowing  upon  the  reeking  forms,  the  sun 
Shines  fiercely  down— the  god,  before  whose  shrine. 
In  life  they  bowed,  in  death  are  offered  up. 

But  hungry  ghouls  swoop  down  upon  the  dead. 

And,  fiercely  screaming,  claim  a  ghastly  share. 

Vultures  and  eagles,  every  bird  of  prey 

That  haunts  the  crags  of  the  wild  Ghautian  hills, 

Here  feed  and  fatten  on  the  dreadful  1ea-t. 

And  when  the  sun,  the  dews  and  mountain  wind>. 


WALLS  OF  CORN  AND  OTHER  POEMS. 


Have  ended  the  dread  work  the  birds  began, 
When  the  slow-working  fingers  of  decay 
Have  crumbled  up  the  bleached  and  naked  bones, 
There  is  the  well  below;  and,  piece  by  piece, 
They  drop  into  its  bosom,  dark  and  deep; 
This  is  the  secret  of  the  Silent  Tower: — 

Ajalee  was  a  Parsee  bride,  beloved 

And  beautiful.     Her  husband  clung  to  her 

With  passionate  devotion—yet  she  died. 

So  had  he  loved  her  that  the  awful  thought 

Of  giving  up  the  form  his  arms  had  clasped 

To  the  fierce  talons  of  the  screaming  birds 

Seemed  horrible  to  him.    So,  when  he  laid 

His  lovely  sleeper  on  the  Silent  Tower 

With  a  last  kiss,  love  formed  its  skillful  plan. 

He  built  about  her  a  close  netted  screen, 

At  which  the  hungry  claws  might  tear  in  vain; 

Then  left  her  to  the  moon  and  midnight  stars; 

To  the  soft  washings  of  the  tropic  rain; 

The  mountain  winds,  and  the  sweet,  sacred  sun. 


32  WALLS  OF  CORN  AND  OTHER  POEMS. 


Good  Luck. — A  Christmas  Ballad. 

"  What!  marry  my  daughter 't— you.  sir  V— 

A  clerk,  with  only  your  pay  ? 
Your  cheek  is  something  amazing! 
Enough.    I've  no  more  to  say." 

"  One  moment— your  daughter  loves  me. 

I  am  strong,  and  willing  to  work. 
Wealth  may  be  won,  and  honor— 
And  I'm  not  the  one  to  shirk." 

The  banker  rose  up  in  anger— 
"  No  more  of  this  folly,  I  say! 

Be  gone!  but  another  word,  sir, 
And  you  lose  your  place  to-day." 


The  vault  of  the  bank  at  midnight . 

At  midnight  dark  and  cold; 
The  cashier  hastily  filling 

A  grip  with  the  bags  of  gold. 

A  deep  voice  close  beside  him — 
"  Throw  up  your  hands  or  die  !" 

He  turned,  faced  a  pistol's  muzzle, 
And  a  stern,  commanding  eye. 

Frighted,  pallid,  and  nerveless, 
No  strength  to  resist  had  he,  . 

While  his  limbs  were  bound  and  fettered 
As  firmly  as  firm  could  be. 

The  news  flew  through  the  city — 
Men  said,  "  'Twas  a  brave  night's  work 

A  man  had  grown  suddenly  famous— 
Young  Oscar,  the  banker's  clerk. 


WALLS  OF  CORN  AND  OTHER  POEMS. 

Walking  the  streets  at  midnight, 
Restless  with  love's  despair, 

He  had  seen  the  sly  thief  enter — 
Had  followed,  and  caught  him  there. 

******* 

In  the  banker's  sumptuous  dwelling 
The  Christmas  feast  was  spread. 

Beside  the  host  stood  Oscar, 
The  taller  by  half  a  head. 

The  banker  turned,  and,  taking 
The  young  man's  trembling  hand, 

Through  the  great  rooms  he  led  him— 
Through  doors  by  arches  spanned — 

To  where  his  dark  eyed  daughter 
By  her  white-haired  mother  stood; 

And  smiled  as  the  lovers'  faces 
Flushed  red  with  warm  young  blood. 

Then  said  he  to  young  Oscar, 

As  he  joined  their  throbbing  hands, 
"  Choice  is  the  gift  I  give  you, 

Yet  my  debt  uncancelled  stands. 

"  Therefore,  besides  my  daughter, 

I  give  you  a  post  of  trust, 
The  cashier's  place  left  vacant 
Is  yours— it  is  but  just." 

A  silence  deep  had  fallen 
O'er  all  that  brilliant  throng, 

But  now  the  hush  was  broken 
By  cheers  both  loud  and  long. 

Astonished  at  the  honors 

Thus  showered  on  his  head, 
Stood  Oscar,  modest,  blushing, — 

"  'Twas  just  good  luck,"  he  said. 


WALLS  OF  CORN  AND  OTHER  POEMS. 


"  My  Darling." 

"  My  darling,"  sweetest  name  that  ever  fell, 
Laden  with  tenderness  from  human  lips, 
No  other  can  so  stir  the  heart's  deep  well, 
So  send  the  warm  blood  to  the  flnger-tips. 

Love's  deepest  speech  is  short,  its  words  are  few; 

When  most  there  is  to  say,  oft  least  is  said. 
A  clasp,  a  silent  look  that  thrills  one  through, 

A  kiss,  "  my  darling  " — thus  two  hearts  are  wed. 

"  My  darling  " — spoken  oft  with  tender  tears 

Under  the  soft  hush  of  a  summer  night, 
Forgotten  oft,  alas!  in  after  years 

When  beauty  dims  and  rosy  cheeks  grow  white. 

But  sometimes  love  grows  brighter  for  its  wear. 

Like  unmixed  gold— gaining  a  deeper  glow 
For  the  slow  friction  of  life's  toil  and  care, 

I  know  that  God,  who  made  us,  meant  it  so. 

"  My  darling  "—when  the  locks  are  thin  and  gray, 

And  when  life's  sun  hangs  low — is  well-nigh  set, 
And  youth,  with  all  its  dreams,  is  far  away, 
Then  blest  are  they  who  hear  and  say  it  yet. 


A  Sweet  Woman. 

I  know  her  well,— a  thing  that  few  can  say— 

So  far  within  the  shade  her  quiet  life, 
So  softly  flow  its  tides  from  day  to  day, 
So  gently  do  its  hidden  fountains  play. 
And  she — she  is  a  mother  and  a  wife. 

What  is  she  like  ?    Ah,  that  I  do  not  know. 

I  scarce  can  tell  the  color  of  her  eyes, 
So  changeful  are  the  lights  that  come  and  go- 


WALLS  OF  CORN  AND  OTHER  POEMS.  35 

Now  a  quick  sparkle,  now  a  thoughtful  glow- 
But  always  tender  sweetness  in  them  lies. 

Beautiful? — why,  yes,  if  beauty  is  a  thing 

That  one  can  feel  and  lean  one's  heart  upon; 

Beauty  of  form  and  hue  not  now  I  sing. 

Her  beauty  is  that  which  soon  takes  wing, 

And  leaves  but  ugliness  when  youth  is  gone. 

Her  hands  are  lovely,  yet  they  are  not  white, 
Nor  even  small.    Their  beauty  each  one  sees 

Who  feels  their  ministrations  deft  and  light. 

I  think  they  are  the  fairest  in  the  night, 

Cooling  some  hot  brow,  soothing  pain  to  ease. 

She  is  a  queen;  and  yet  no  jewelled  crown 

Enfolds  the  soft  bands  of  her  shining  hair. 

Love  is  her  coronet.    Hands  hard  and  brown, 

And  tiny  baby  fingers,  clasp  it  down. 

Methinks  that  is  the  holiest  crown  to  wear. 

Silent  her  work,  and  all  unknown  to  fame. 

Of  loud,  for  sounding  praise  she  never  dreams. 
The  world's  great  trumpeter's  know  not  her  name. 
Her  steady  light  is  no  wide-flaring  flame; 

'Tis  but  a  fireside  lamp,  that  softly  gleams. 

I  do  not  know — I  think  her  way  is  best. 

Her  husband  trusts  her,  and  her  children  rise 
With  sweetly  smiling  lips,  and  call  her  blest. 
She  does  her  duty,  leaves  to  God  the  rest. 

She  is  not  great,  but,  surely  she  is  wise. 


36  WALLS  OF  CORN  AND  OTHER  POEMS. 


The  Summer's  Tale  Is  Told. 

The  twilight  ends;  the  last  faint  crimson  stain 

Has  faded  from  the  west;  the  deep  blue  sky, 
Deeper  and  darker  grows,  and  once  again 

God's  lamps  are  lighted  in  the  dome  on  high. 
Above  yon  distant  swell,  where  trailing  clouds 

Hung  low  and  black  at  noon, 
Now,  round  and  red,  from  out  their  torn  white  shrouds. 

Steps  forth  the  harvest  moon. 

Thus  she  came  forth  last  night,  thus  will  she  come 

The  next  night  and  the  next.    Oh,  magic  time  ! 
The  full  moon  wanes  not  at  the  harvest  home, 

And  night's  grand  poem  flows  in  even  rhyme. 
Silent  the  thresher  stands,  where  hills  of  gold, 

Heaped  high  on  earth's  shorn  breast, 
Loom  in  the  moonlight.    Summer's  tale  is  told; 

The  sickle  lies  in  rest. 

The  night  has  wondrous  voices.    At  my  door 

I  sit  and  listen  to  its  many  tones. 
The  wind  comes  through  the  trees  with  muffled  roar, 

And  round  the  moonlit  gables  sadly  moans. 
The  raccoon  scouts  among  the  stricken  corn 

With  disappointed  cry; 
A  dismal  owl  sends  out  his  note  forlorn; 

One  whippowil  sings  nigh. 

And  there  is  other  music.    All  the  grass 
Is  peopled  with  a  crowd  of  tiny  things; 

We  see  them  not,  yet  crush  them  as  we  pass. 
These  sing  all  night,  and  clap  their  puny  wings; 

Beneath  my  very  feet  calls  clear  and  strong 
A  cricket,  slyly  hid, 

While  at  my  elbow— well  I  know  his  song- 
Rattles  a  katydid. 


WALLS  OF  CORN  AND  OTHER  POEMS. 


Poor,  puny  things!  your  gala  nears  its  end. 

A  subtle  change  steals  over  vale  and  hill; 
There  comes  a  hint  of  autumn  in  the  wind 

That  moans  about  the  roof;  the  nights  are  chill; 
Short  and  yet  shorter  grows  each  passing  day:— 

The  year  is  waxing  old. 
The  frost  waits  in  the  north,  not  far  away — 

The  summer's  tale  is  told. 


Kansas,  the  Prairie  Queen. 

In  the  heart  of  the  country  we  love  so  well, 
Two  mighty  oceans  midway  between, 

On  grassy  plain  and  on  billowy  swell, 
Sits  in  her  beauty  the  Prairie  Queen. 

She  hears  not  the  song  of  the  solemn  sea, 
Nor  the  roar  of  cataracts  mountain-born: 

No  lofty  peaks,  rock-ribbed  has  she, 
With  white  hoods  piercing  the  clouds  of  morn. 

No  white  sails  glide  over  lakes  asleep; 

She  boasts  no  placers  of  golden  sands. 
Her  ships  are  the  "  schooners"  that  westward  creep, 

And  her  richest  mines  are  her  fertile  lands. 

For  aught  she  lacketh— this  Prairie  Queen- 
Aught  of  mountain,  or  lake  or  sea,— 

There  are  wide,  wine  plains  and  billows  green— 
Room  for  uncounted  hosts  has  she. 

Her  soil  is  deep  and  her  winds  blow  free; 

There  are  belts  of  timber  and  quiet  creeks: 
And  rivers  at  brow,  at  breast,  and  knee, 

Fed  by  the  snows  on  western  peaks. 

God  made  the  land,  and  man  makes  the  State. 
As  the  hand  of  the  Maker  has  made  her  fair, 


WALLS  OF  CORN   AND  OTHER  POEMS. 


So  honest  labor  has  made  her  great. 
And  wrought  the  rob  -s  she  was  barn  to  w.-ar. 

There  was  once  a  time— not  so  long  ago  — 

When  all  this  land  was  a  grassy  sea, 
Shook  by  the  tramp  of  the  buffalo. 

Trod  on  by  savagas  flerca  and  free. 

Another  time.    On  the  winds  was  born 

A  cry  for  help— when  the  settlers  stood 
Battling  for  freedom — when,  rent  and  torn, 

She  was  christened  with  fire  and  biptized  in  blood. 

Flame,  and  rope,  and  bullet,  and  knife 
Did  their  work,  while  the  world  locked  on: 

But  the  fair  young  State  came  out  of  the  strife 
Fanrun.  gloriom— for  Freedom  woa. 

There  were  heroes  then;  and  we  see  to-day 

What  a  rich  growth  sprang  where  their  blood  was  sown 
Why  slavery  trembled— for  these  were  they 

Who  drove  the  wedge  that  toppled  her  throne. 

Dark  days  and  stern!  remembered  still 

By  pleasant  fireside,  by  peaceful  stream. 
As  one  remembers  with  shuddering  thrill 

The  horror  and  fright  of  some  evil  dream. 

With  "  Bleeding  Kansas"  how  fares  it  now? 

Her  cup  of  plenty,  her  smile  serene, 
She  sits  at  peace  with  untroubled  brow. 

She  is  rich,  she  is  great,  she  is  crowned  a  Queen! 

Her  prairies  are  decked  with  peaceful  homes, 
Nestled,  like  dove-cotes,  in  clumps  of  green; 

Fair  cities  rise  with  their  spires  and  domes, 
And  reaches  of  railway  streched  between. 

The  cattle  by  thousands  that  dot  her  plains, 
The  stacks,  like  tents,  on  her  bosom  borne; 


WALLS  OF  CORN  AND  OTHER   POEMS. 


The  grain  sacks,  heaped  on  the  loaded  wains; 
Her  stately  forests  of  ripening  corn; 

Her  quarries,  where  palaces,  towers  and  spires 
Wait  but  the  hands  and  the  skill  to  form; 

The  masses  of  coal,  which  feed  the  tires 
That/  drives  her  engines  and  keeps  her  warm:— 

All  these  are  wealth;  yet  a  greater  wealth 
She  holds  in  her  children — her  boys  and  girls — 

Their  faces  bright  with  the  tints  of  health, 
With  their  laughing  eyes  and  their  tossing  curls. 

The  country  boy  with  the  bare,  brown  feet, 
Tripping  to  school  with  his  books  and  slate, 

May  climb  some  day  to  the  highest  seat — 
In  some  great  crisis  may  save  the  state. 

Little  he  thinks,  at  his  books  or  play, 

While  the  warm  blood  mantles  his  "'cheek  of  tan," 
Of  the  work  of  the  years  that  stretch  away; 

Yet  the  careless  boy  is  the  coming  man. 

And  the  little  girl,  with  her  dimples  sweet, 
Her  red  lips  fresh  as  the  morning  dew, 

Her  silvery  laugh,  and  her  dancing  feet, 
Is  the  coming  woman,  tender  and  true. 

The  boy,  the  girl,  in  their  childish  grace 
Conning  their  school  tasks,  day  by  day — 

These  are  they  who  shall  take  our  place, 
When  we  are  at  rest  and  laid  away. 

We  are  proud  of  Kansas,  the  beautiful  Queen, 
And  proud  are  we  of  her  rields  of  corn; 

But  a  nobler  pride  than  these,  I  ween, 
Is  our  pride  in  her  children,  Kansas  born.' 


43  WALLS  OF  CORN  AND  OTHER  POEMS. 


Choice. 

Fair  and  sweet  is  the  face  of  a  child. 

Where  sin  his  left  no  trace; 
Lovely  the  brow  uncovered  by  care, 

And  the  fresh  lips'  smiling  grace; 
Sweet  as  the  dawn  are  the  clear  young  eyes. 

Where  trouble  has  found  no  place. 

Yet  'tis  a  world  of  trouble  and  care, 
Where  the  child  has  entered  in; 

A  world  of  toil  and  of  eager  strife, 
Where  only  the  brave  may  win; 

A  world  where  the  wicked  watch  for  prey; 
A  world  that  is  durk  with  sin. 

O  children,  innocent  ones! 

Life  is  not  what  it  seems 
To  you— at  play  on  its  border  land, 

Or  smiling  in  rosy  dreams — 
'Tis  no  soft  vale,  where  the  lotus  rocks 

On  bosoms  of  silent  streams. 

Life  is  a  battle  and  all  must  tight,    . 

Who  would  sing  the  victor's  song; 
Life  is  a  race  and  the  goal  is  far — 

If  happen  that  life  be  long- 
Yet  is  the  race  not  all  to  the  swift, 

And  the  battle  is  not  to  the  strong. 

Who,  then,  shall  win  in  the  rac3,  in  the  fight: 

He  who  is  steady  and  true; 
Who  gives  the  best  of  his  heart  and  soul 

To  the  good  that  he  finds  to  do; 
By  naught  dismayed  and  by  naught  seduced 

Constant  his  whole  life  through. 

Steadfastly  treading  the  old,  old  way 
That  the  faithful  have  trod  before; 


WALLS  OF  CORN  AND  OTHER  POEMS. 


Patiently  scaling  the  same  rough  step.-;, 
Bearing  the  cross  you  bore; — 

Ever  with  face  set  toward  the  gates 
That  gleam  on  the  shining  shore. 

Steadfastly  battle  without 

And  steadfastly  foes  within— 

For  never  human  hearts,  but  feel 
Some  taint  of  its  origin — 

Triumphant  now.  now  weeping  sore, 
And  crying,  "forgive  my  sin." 

Soldier  is  he  with  no  bannered  pride, 
Nor  in  gorgeous  trappings  dressed, 

No  boom  of  cannon,  no  trumpet  blast, 
Xo  tossing  plumed  crest— 

Are  heard  or  seen  or  the  field  of  strife 
That  lies  in  his  throbbing  breast. 

Such  is  he,  and  such  is  the  life 

Of  many  a  striving  one— 
Hunted,  buffeted,  snare  beset; 

Wounded,  yet  pressing  on;— 
Little  he  knows  of  peace  or  rest, 

Till  the  war  is  over  and  done. 

Ever  for  model  the  perfect  Christ— 
Though  he  but  half  attain;— 

Perfect  never,  yet,  scanned  beside 
A  life  of  need  and  gain, 

A  selfish  pleasure,  of  slothful  ease, — 
How  grand  his  toil  and  pain; 

You  are  young,  and  careless,  and  gay — 
Standing  where  two  roads  meet — 

Choose,  ere  the  evil  days  draw  nigh, 
Whither  shall  land  your  feet! 

Time  has  wings,  and  the  years  sweep  on 
And  life  is  but  frail  and  fleet. 


42  U  ALLS  OF  CORN*  AND  OTHER  POKMS. 

Choose!    Will  you  take  for  guide  or  friend 

The  teacher  of  Gall i  lee- 
Loving,  forgiving,  denying  self, 

Bidding  the  Tempter  flee; 
Treading  the  billows  when  passion  is  high. 

As  Jesus  trod  on  the  sea? 

Can  you?  and  will  you?  oh,  but  try. 

Falling,  yet  try  again. 
On  the  wreck  of  to-day's  defeat. 

Build  for  to-morrow's  gain, 
Effort  is  noble; — Striving  still. 

Ye  shall  not  strive  in  vain. 


Out  West. 

"  Westward  ho!''  comes  ringing  from  the  throat  of  "  The 

Pioneer  ''- 

A  paper  run  by  the  railroads  out  on  the  great  frontier. 
Wanted,  a  mighty  army  to  settle  the  rolling  flat, 
That  lies,  like  a  garden  of  Eden,  along  the  beautiful  Platte. 

Wanted,  women  and  children,  bearded  and  stalwart  men, 
From  stern  New  England  hillside,  from  rugged  and  rocky 

glen: 
From  steeps  of  the  Alleghanies,  where  bleak  winds  fiercely 

blow, 
And  down  whose  slopes  of  hard-pan  roll  storms  of  sleet  and 

snow. 

Wanted— to  settle  the  prairies!  and  still  the  call  is  heard— 
Irish,  Norwegian,  German — but  Yankee  blood  preferred. 
Wanted— and  who  would  linger  on  patches  stony  and  steep. 
When  a  wide  realm  lies  before  him,  with  soil  both  rich  and 

deep'.- 

Good  Pioneer,  Sir  Railroad,  all  that  you  say  is  true. 
And  wondrous  fair  the  picture  that  you  are  holding  up  to 
view; 


WALLS  OF  CORN  AND  OTHER  POEMS. 


But  is  it  straight  and  honest,  and  is  it  fair  and  right, 
That  only  the  good  is  shown  us,  and  the  bad  left  out  of 
sight? 

'Tis  true,  a  careless  mention  of  the  "  hopper  "  here  is  made, 
As  something  rare  and  seldom,  like  tire,  or  Indian  raid; 
But  naught  of  the  summer  droughts,  and  not  the  faintest 

breatli 
Concerning  the  western  '"blizzard,"  that    awful  blast  of 

death. 

No  record  how  the  fanner,  amid  the  rush  and  roar, 
All  blinded  and  bewildered,  sinks  down  beside  his  door; 
Sinks  freezing  at  his  threshold  with  unavailing  moan — 
For  the  voices  of  the  tempest  outspeak  his  dying  groan — 

If  the  half  we  are  to  credit  of  the  shuddering  settler's  tale, 
Of  the  tempest  swift  and  sudden,  of  the  icy,  blinding  veil, 
Then,  to  a  western  blizzard,  with  its  rush  and  its  deadly 

sting, 
A  storm  of  the  Alleghanies  is  the  flap  of  a  pigeon's  wing. 

A  spectre  stalks  the  prairies,  a  spectre  gaunt  and  grim, 

Scattering  woe  and  famine,  and  waste  of  cheek  and  limb. 

There  is  freezing,  there  is  starving,  while  rings  the  cheery 
call. 

••  Wanted— five  hundred  thousand  !  "—Do  they  think  us  id 
iots  all  y 


WALLS  OF     CORN  AND  OTHER  POEMS. 


Wants. 

"  Man  wants  but  little  here  below. 

Nor  wants  that  little  long." 
A  gentle,  genial  bard  was  he 
Who  put  that  in  his  song. 

It  should  have  been  some  Anchorite. 

Who,  bound  his  flesh  to  slaughter, 
Employed  his  days  in  counting  beads. 

And  lived  on  roots  and  water. 

He  must  have  had,  it  seems  to  me. 

A  most  contented  mind, 
And  must  have  known  but  little  of 

That  genus  called  mankind. 

Who  little  wants,  nor  wants  that  long, 

Is  only  half  a  human. 
Man's  wants  are  many,  and,  I  own, 

'Tis  much  the  same  with  woman. 

For  instance  I— and  I  suppose 

That  1  am  like  the  rest — 
Have  many  wants  that  stir  and  fret 

In  my  unquiet  breast. 

So  many  minus  quantities 

Come  into  my  equation, 
To  name  them  all  would  go  beyond 

The  scope  of  numeration. 

I  want  my  daily  bread — and  that 

Includes  a  bill  of  fare 
That,  for  its  comprehensiveness, 

Would  make  our  poet  stare. 


WALLS  OF  CORN  AND  OTHER  POEMS.  45 

Not  all  the  fruits  of  every  clime 

Were  I  content  with  having; 
Not  all  the  cooks  of  all  the  world 

Could  satisfy  my  craving. 

I  want  the  strongest  kinds  of  meats 

To  flll  my  larder  lean; 
I  want  the  words  of  all  the  wise 

That  are  or  aye  have  been. 

And  then  I  want  the  power  to  choose 

From  out  the  vast  collation; 
I  want  to  know,  where  now  I  toss 

In  doubt  and  speculation. 

I  want,  beside,  such  solid  fare, 

All  tender  household  words, 
I  want  the  lays  of  poets  and 

The  songs  of  summer  birds. 

And  then  I  want  my  friends— a  few 

Who  know  me  well,  yet  love  me, 
And  who,  should  swift  disaster  come, 

Would  not  be  sure  to  shove  me. 

I  want  both  will  and  strength  to  rise 

Above  all  hurtful  things; 
I  want  to  be  an  angel — but 

I  was  not  born  with  wings. 

I  want— but  it  occurs  to  me 

That  space  and  type  are  finite. 
Should  I  go  on,  the  printer  would 

"  Respectfully  decline  "  it. 


46  WALLS  OF  CORN  AND  OTHER  POEMS. 


Westward. 

When  eastern  snows  are  melting  and  the  south  wind  softly 

blows, 

The  old  hives  swarm,  and  westward  the  Star  of  Empire  goes. 
"  Westward  ho!"  is  ever  the  watchword  of  the  spring: 
As  sure  as  birds  fly  northward,  is  this  a  settled  thing. 

'Tis  heard  again  in  autumn,  when  crops  are  gathered  in — 
When  the  corn  is  in  the  barn  and  the  wheat  is  in  the  bin. 
Westward,  and  ever  westward,  the  long,  white  wagons  creep, 
Through  towns  and  open  country,  and  forests  dark  and  deep. 

Westward  —  women  and   children,  bearded   and    stalwart 

men — 

From  stern  New  England  hillside,  from  wild  and  rocky  glen; 
From  steeps  of  the  Alleghanies,  where  bleak  winds  fiercely 

blow; 
And  down  whose  crags  of  granite  roll  storms  of  sleet  and 

snow. 

Westward— from  o'er  the  ocean  a  crowd  comes  pressing  on, 
Russian,  Norwegian,  German— all  bloods  under  the  sun 
Here  meet  and  mingle  kindly.    As  all  the  world  doth  know, 
When  other  lands  are  full,  hither  rolls  the  overflow. 

Westward,  and  ever  westward,  the  peaceful  army  comes— 
Workmen  for  better  wages,  the  homeless  seeking  homes; 
Young  men-  life  all  before  them,  with  all  that  life  endears — 
And  old  men,  faint  and  weary,  with  the  bootless  toil  of 
years. 

Still  they  come,  and  still  we  greet  them  with  the  clasp  of 

friendly  hand; 
Still  they  flood  and  swell  our  cities,  still  they  spread  across 

the  land; 
Westward,  westward  —  led  or  followed  by  the  headlight's 

ghostly  gleam, 
While  lonely  wilds  are  startled  by  the  engine's  eerie  scream. 


WALLS  OF  CORN  AND  OTHER  POEMS. 


On  bare,  wide  slopes  the  dug-out  yields  shelter  safe  and  sure, 
And  from  its  fireside  altar  floats  incense  sweet  and  pure. 
Beside  the  lowly  door  sits  the  grandsire  old  and  gray, 
While  round  him,  tanned  and  merry,  the  barefoot  children 
play. 

The  sod,  upturned,  wooes  surely  the  sunshine  and  the  rain; 
Anon  the  swells  are  golden  with  seas  of  waving  grain. 
Where  all  was  bare  and  barren,  thick  stand  the  clustered 

sheaves; 
Where  all  was  bare  and  treeless,  winds  whisper  through  the 

leaves. 

Towns  spring  as  by  enchantment  along  the  great  frontier; 
Where  the  owl  dwelt  silent,  solemn,  with  the  prairie  dog 

last  year, 
Now  stands  the  store  and  school  house,  and  church  with 

steeple  white, 
In  a  city  reared  by  magic,  like  the  gourd  that  grew  in  a 

night. 


Farmer  Jones  On  Inflation. 

So  the  law  is  passed.     I  suppose  it's  no  use  to  talk, 
And  I'm  not  a  public  man— I  travel  a  private  walk. 
But,  all  the  same,  I  should  like  to  say  my  say, 
Although  my  way  of  speaking  is  a  homely  way. 

Slowly  I  follow  my  plow,  and  think  and  think, 
And  it  seems  to  me  there's  somewhere  a  missing  link. 
I  read  the  papers  and  speeches  that  come  to  hand, 
But  something  looks  dark;  I  cannot  quite  understand. 

Softly  the  lawyers  talked  on  the  capitol  floor, 
(Flow  tender-hearted  they  were!)  of  the  suffering  poor. 
Money!  to  pay  the  workingmen,  starving  for  bread! 
Money!  to  save  the  dying  and  bury  the  dead! 


WALLS  OF  CORN  AND  OTHER  POBMS. 


To  the  farmer  was  promised  a  new  a,nd  a  dawning  day; 
Fair  prices  for  produce,  where  now  he  but  gives  away: 
More  he  should  get  for  his  wheat,  his  corn  and  rye, 
But  nothing  they  said  of  things  he  would  have  to  buy. 

If  wheat  goes  up,  but  little's  the  good  to  me, 
If  up  with  a  jerk  goes  sugar,  and  coffee  and  tea: 
I  have  to  pay  more  for  a  reaper,  a  horse,  or  a  hand, 
And,  if  I  am  homeless,  more  for  a  house  and  land. 

"  Inflation  is  sparkling  wine,"  some  one  has  said. 
"  If  it  starts  up  the  pulse  and  blood  of  sluggish  trade," 
But  wine  is  a  mocker;  we  dream  we  are  rich  and  great; 
Then  comes  the  drunken  panic;  then— why,  we  re-inflate. 

Inflation  is  gas!  and  up  and  away,  to  the  tune 
Of  forty-four  millions,  soars  Uncle  Sam's  balloon. 
But  a  storm  is  ahead;  the  dark  skies  scowl  and  frown, 
And,  stripped  and  riddled,  the  thing  has  got  to  come  down. 

Such  are  my  thoughts,  as  I  toil  for  my  daily  bread, 

And  follow  the  clean-cut  furrow  with  steady  tread. 

I  am  not  skilled  in  the  hidden  tricks  of  the  law, 

But  I've  learned  to  trace  a  current  by  the  course  of  a  straw. 


WALLS  OF  CORN  AND  OTHER  POEMS. 


The  Renter's  Exodus. 

It  was  near  the  end  of  winter  and  mild  as  mild  could  be, 
When  a  renter  started    westward  with  wife  and  children 

three, 
Going  forth  to  seek  a  homestead  on  the  prairies  bare  and 

lone — 
For  the  poor  man  hungered  sorely  for  a  place  to  call  his 

own. 

The  wind  blew  soft  and  balmy,   the  day  was  bright  and 

fair; 
The  spring  was  stealing  northward  and  her  breath  was  in 

the  air. 

Like  starting  on  a  picnic— so  high  their  spirits  rose — 
Seemed    that  journey's   fair  beginning— could   they  have 

seen  its  close ! 

Slow  crept  the  wagon  westward.     A  week  of  pleasant  days, 
Then  came  one  dark  gray  morning.     A  strangely  brooding 

haze 

Hung  o'er  the  lonely  country,  its  curtain  vague  and  dim, 
And  hid  the  palid  sunlight  and  hid  the  prairie's  rim. 

"Best    stay    in    cover   stranger,    I'm  sure  you're  welcome 

quite." 
Tims  spoke  the  kind  old  farmer  where  they  had  spent  the 

night. 

"That  gray  film  over  yonder,  that  queer  look  iu  the  sky— 
I  know  the  signs:  then  tarry,  and  let  the  storm  go  by." 

With  thanks  for  proffered  kindness,  they  still  must  needs 

be  gone. 

'Twas  "not  so  bad  a  morning,  when  all  was  said  and  done. 
Alas  for  rash  impatience;  it  can  not  brook  to  wait, 
But  shuts  its  eyes  all  blindly  and  rushes  on  its  fate. 


50  WALLS  OF  CORN  AND  OTHER  POKMS. 

Slow  crept  the  wagon  westward:  and  still  that  filmy  veil 
Hung  o'er  the  red-brown  prairie,  so  ghastly,  dim  and  pale. 
A  sound  like  rushing  pinions— a  moment,  and  no  more- 
Then  came  the  freezing  norther,   with  savage  shriek  and 
roar. 

Cold  blew   the  wind,   and  colder,   like  bits  of  sharpened 

stone, 
The  fine  snow  pierced  their  garments  and  chilled  them  to 

the  bone. 

Out  on  the  lonely  prairie,  that  seemed  of  life  bereft — 
Alack!  and  O!  alack  for  the  shelter  they  had  left. 

The  early  twilight  fell  and  night  was  closing  fast, 

When  through  the  swirling  tempest  they  spied  a  light  at 

last. 
The  children  tried  to  shout  with  their  numb  and  stiffened 

lips, 
And  clapped  their  little  hands  with  the  freezing  finger  tips. 

'Twas  the  dwelling  snug  and  warm  of  a  farmer  well-to-do. 
"Can  we  stop  here  for  the  night,  and  till  the  storm  is 

through'?" 

In  the  doorway  stood  the  speaker,  a  vision  wild  arid  weird, 
With    white    frost   on    his    eyebrows,  and  ice  hung  on  his 

beard. 

As  he  spoke  he  glancad   within  at  the  warm  and  lamplit 

room, 
At  the  young  and  comely  woman,  at  the  children   in  their 

bloom, 
Never  doubting  of  the  answer,   full    trusting— more  the 

shame— 
To  him,  the  stony  hearted,  from  whom  the  answer  came. 

"I  don't  keep  tavern,   stranger,  and  spare  room  have  we 

none; 
You'll  find  a  place,  I  reckon,  some  three  miles  further  on." 


WALLS  OF  CORN  AND  OTHER  POEMS.  51 

No  other  word  was  spoken;  the  poor  man  turned  away 
With  pale  lips  tense  and  set,  and  with  face  of  ashen  gray. 

No  time  was  there  for  parley,  and  no  use  had  there  been; 
He  saw  no  ray  of  pity  in  the  gaze  so  cold  and  keen. 
He  rushed  back  to  the  wagon;  said,  "three  miles  yet  to  go!" 
He  had  found  that  human  hearts  could  be  colder  than  the 
snow. 

The  children  huddled  closer,  the  shivering  mother   pressed 
Beneath  her  shawl  the  youngest  still  closer  to  her  breast. 
One  sad,    resentful    look    towards   the  warm  and  glowing 

light, 
And  the  man  whipped  up  his  horses,  so  they  passed  into  the 

night. 

Through  the  storm  and  drift  and  darkness  did  the  swaying 

wagon  reel, 
While  the  farmer  asked  a  blessing  on  the  smoking  evening 

meal . 

Later,  he  read  his  bible  (the  cruel  hypocrit!) 
And    prayed    for    preservation   from    the    dangers  of  the 

night. 

****** 

On  hard  drifts,  pure  and  sparkling,  the  sun  shone  calmly 

down, 
When  a  chilling,   startling  item  was  wired  from  town  to 

town, 

''A  family  found  frozen."    Then,  later,  itwas  told 
How  a  farmer  had  refused  them  a  shelter  from  the  cold. 

The  farmer — now  how  fares  he?    Mayhap  he  prospers  still, 
With  corn  heaped  in  his  cribs,  and  with  money  in  his  till: 
But  I  wonder  if  his  pulses  do  always  calmly  beet, 
And  if  his  food  is  pleasant,  and  if  his  sleep  is  sweet. 


52  WALLS  OF  CORN  AND  OTHER  POEMS. 


In  Memorial!). 

Fast  falls  the  night.     The  bleak  December  wind 
In  fitful  gusts  sweeps  o'er  a  lowly  bed 

Made  but  to-day.    A  true  heart  and  a  kind 
Lies  still  and  pulseless,  she,  our  friend,  is  dead. 

A  few  hours  since,  I  stood,  with  tear-wet  eyes, 
And  looked  upon  her,  placid  in  her  sleep, 

Longing  to  whisper  to  her,  loving-wise, 
But  silence  wrapped  her,  I  could  only  weep. 

I  loved  her  well,  and  never  let  her  know, 
Xor  sought  her  side  to  soothe  the  pain  she  bore, 

By  word  or  touch,  or  aught  that  friend  could  do. 
Now  'tis  too  late — and  oh!  it  grieves  me  sore. 

0  friend,  had  I  but  known  that  on  thy  brow 
Death  had  its  signet  set,  and  marked  his  own! 

But  bitter  tears  are  unavailing  now, 
In  vain  regret.    O  friend,  had  I  but  known! 

We  speak  of  what  she  was.  how  tender,  true, 
How  loving,  loyal,  to  her  friends,  how  dear, 

Tell  to  each  other  her  sweet  story  through, 
In  voices  low— alas!  she  cannot  hear. 

The  night  grows  darker;  still  the  cold  winds  moan, 
For  me  repeating  but  one  sad  refrain, 

1  seem  to  hear,  in  every  mournful  tone 
Only  the  bitter  wail—"  In  vain,  in  vain." 


WALLS  OF  CORN  AND  OTHER  POEMS. 


Summer, 

The  trailing  skirts  of  the  summer 
Have  swept  away  to  the  south — 

A  blast  came  down  from  the  northland 
And  kissed  her  on  the  mouth. 

She  fled  from  the  kiss  that  chilled  her, 
From  the  touch  of  a  frosty  hand; 

But  the  work  of  her  busy  fingers 
Is  strewn  all  over  the  land. 

Wrought  she  well  in  the  sunshine. 

And  wrought  she  well  in  the  rain; 
For  the  corn  hangs  thick  and  heavy, 

And  the  garners  are  filled  with  grain. 

Busy  was  she  in  the  orchards— 
The  rich  fruit  swings  o'erhead, 

While  the  low  boughs,  overladen, 
Lie  prone  on  the  paths  we  tread. 

Peaches  with  coats  of  velvet; 

Apples  in  satin  fine: 
Purple  grapes  by  the  river, 

Where  the  great  coils  twist  and  twine. 

For  these  do  we  bless  the  summer, 
So  fervid,  and  strong,  and  sweet; 

Autumn  but  touches  and  ripens 
As  he  follows  her  flying  feet. 

Then  sing,  oh!  sing  her  praises, 
Ye  singers  with  throats  in  tune; 

While  the  fruit  and  corn  hang  heavy, 
All  under  the  harvest  moon. 


54  WALLS  OF  CORN  AND  OTHER  POEMS. 


4i  Poetic  Pies." 

From  the  oven  hot  and  steaming, 

With  the  ruby  bubbles  gleaming, 
As  they  boil  up  through  the  craters  in  little  puffs  and  sighs, 

There's  resistless  invitation 

To  the  palate's  delectation 
In  the  odor  and  the  look  of  those  "  poetic  "  cherry  pies. 

Oh,  their  juice  than  wine  is  richer! 

It  is  poured  from  out  the  pitcher 

Where  is  stored  the  luscious  nectar  distilled  at  summer's 
prime. 

Show  these  pies  to  Doctor  Tanner, 

He  would  forthwith  strike  his  banner 
And  put  off  the  fasting  racket  to  a  more  convenient  time. 

At  the  long  day's  slow  expiring, 

At  the  still  hour  of  retiring, 

Would  you  woo  such  .sle^p  :is  orn;tli  with  dr^am;  of   luri.l 
.      dye? 

Then  eat  a  "  heavenly  doughnut," 

Looped  up  in  a  double  bow-knot, 
A  slice  of  bread  "angelic,''  and  a  piece  of  cherry  pie. 

But  if,  instead  of  dreaming. 

Your  brain  with  thought  is  teeming, 
And  you  wish  to  mike  a  strike  in  the  paragraphic  line, 

Then  avoid  the  heavenly  doughnut, 

Looped  up  in  a  double  bow-knot, 
And  likewise  the  pie  poetic,  O  dear  Del  Valentine! 


WALLS  OF  CORN  AND  OTHER  POEMS.  55 


Smiles. 

Some  monstrous  moralist  lays  down  this  rule 
Among  the  maxims:    "Always  wear  a  smile. 

He  must  have  learned  it  in  some  Jesuit  school, 
Where  deepest  wisdom  is  but  deepest  guile. 

Who  would  obey  must  set  himself  the  task— 

A  hateful  one— to  always  wear  a  mask. 

Your  constant  smiler  is  a  hypocrite, 
'Tis  evil  that  must  hide,  not  hone>l  y. 

He  whose  expression  always  wears  a  bit, 
A  very  prince  in  wickedness  may  be. 

A  man  may  smile  and  be  a  villain  still;  " 

And  he  who  always  .smiles,  be  sure  he  will. 

A  smile  is  lovely  when,  through  lip  and  eye, 
The  sunny  sweetness  of  a  soul  shines  out, 

Like  a  quick  glimpse  of  glory;  'tis  a  lie 
When  inner  darkness  it  but  wraps  about. 

Night  rules  us  all  at  times;  shall  we,  the  while, 

Hide  our  sad  midnight  with  a  morning  smile? 

Our  faces  are  our  windows.     Is  it  meet 
That  one  should  always  keep  his  curtains  down? 

When  smiles  are  but  the  draping  of  deceit, 
Better,  far  better,  were  an  honest  frown. 

By  semblance  falsely  sweet  sin  hides  its  art  — 

Only  from  men — God  looketh  on  the  heart. 


Only  One. 

Only  one  heart  to  beat  with  mine- 
That  heart  to  be  loving,  and  warm,  and  true, 
Shedding  its  tenderness,  rich  as  wine 
Pressed  from  grapes  of  the  Rhenish  vine, 
Yet  delicate,  pure,  as  morning  dew. 


56  WALLS  OF  CORN  AND  OTHER  POEMS. 

Only  one  arm  to  lean  upon, 

As  I  thread  the  gorges,  or  mount' the  steeps— 
To  steady  me  when  the  heights  are  won, 
To  pillow  my  head  when  the  day  is  done, 

And  over  my  eyes  the  darkness  creeps. 

Only  one  love,  told  o'er  and  o'er — 

That  love  to  be  quenchless— a  deathless  rtamc- 
Yet,  like  the  ocean  that  laps  the  shore 
In  a  thousand  forms  and  ten  thousand  more, 

To  be  ever  changing,  yet  ever  the  same! 

Only  one  love— do  I  smile  or  weep, 

Do  I  float  with  the  current,  or  bravely  swim 
Against  wind  and  tide— still  let  me  keep, 
While  the  years  drift  by  in  their  onward  sweep, 
But  this,  when  life  and  its  hopes  grow  dim. 

One  other  love!    To  its  breadth  is  this 
As  a  rift  in  a  cloud  to  the  boundless  blue  — 

A>  a  passionate,  transient  throb  of  bliss 

To  infinite  billows  of  happiness 
To  boundless  s<-;is  as  a  drop  of  dew! 


Keep  Your  Temper. 

It  never  did,  and  never  will, 

Put  things  in  better  fashion, 
Though  rough  the  road,  and  steep  the  hill, 

To  fly  into  a  passion. 

And  never  yet  did  fume  or  frefe 

Mend  any  broken  bubble; 
The  direst  evil,  bravely  met, 

Is  but  a  conquered  trouble. 


WALLS  OF  CORN  AND  OTHER  POEMS. 


Our  trials— did  we  only  know — 
Are  often  what  we  make  them; 

And  mole-hills  into  mountains  grow, 
Just  by  the  way  we  take  them. 

Who  keeps  his  temper,  calm  and  cool, 
Will  find  his  wits  in  season; 

But  rage  is  weak,  a  foaming  fool, 
With  neither  strength  nor  reason. 

And  if  a  thing  be  hard  to  bear 
When  nerve  and  brain  are  steady, 

If  fiery  passions  rave  and  tear, 
It  finds  us  mained  already. 

Who  yields  to  anger  conquered  lies— 

A  captive  none  can  pity; 
Who  rules  his  spirit,  greater  is 

Than  he  who  takes  a  city. 

A  hero  he,  though  drums  are  mute, 
And  no  gay  banners  flaunted; 

He  treads  his  passions  under  foot, 
And  meets  the  world  undaunted. 

Oh,  then,  to  bravely  do  our  best, 
Howe'er  the  winds  are  blowing; 

And  meekly  leave  to  God  the  rest, 
Is  wisdom  worth  the  knowing! 


Little  Things. 

We  call  him  strong  who  stands  unmoved — 
Calm  as  some  tempest-beaten  rock — 
When  some  great  trouble  hurls  its  shock; 
We  say  of  him,  his  strength  is  proved: 
But,  when  the  spent  storm  folds  its  wings, 
How  bears  he  then  Life's  little  things'? 


5.x  WALLS  OF  CORN  AND  OTHER  POEMS. 

About  his  brow  we  twine  our  wreath 
Who  seeks  the  battle's  thickest  smoke, 
Braves  flashing  gun  and  sabre-stroke, 
And  scoffs  at  danger,  laughs  at  death: 
We  praise  him  till  the  whole  land  rings: 
But — is  he  brave  in  little  things? 

We  call  him  great  who  does  some  deed 
That  echo  bears  from  shore  to  shore, — 
Does  that,  and  then  does  nothing  more: 
Yet  would  this  work  earn  richer  meed, 
When  brought  before  the  King  of  kings, 
Were  he  but  great  in  little  things. 
We  closely  guard  our  castle-gates 
When  great  temptations  loudly  knock, 
Draw  every  bolt,  clinch  every  lock, 
And  sternly  fold  our  bars  and  gates: 
Yet  some  small  door  wide  open  swings 
At  the  sly  touch  of  little  things! 
I  can  forgive— 'tis  worth  my  while— 
The  treacherous  blow,  the  cruel  thrust; 
Can  bless  my  foe,  as  Christians  must, 
While  Patience  smiles  her  royal  smile: 
Yet  quick  resentment  fiercely  slings 
Its  shots  of  ire  at  little  things. 
And  I  can  tread  beneath  my  feet 
The  hills  of  Passion's  heaving  sea, 
When  wind-tossed  waves  roll  stormily: 
Yet  scarce  resist  the  siren  sweet 
That  at  my  heart's  door  softly  sings 
"Forget,  forget  Life's  little  things." 
But  what  is  Life?    Drops  make  the  sea; 
And  petty  cares  and  small  events, 
Small  causes  and  small  consequents, 
Make  up  the  sum  for  you  and  me: 
Then,  O  for  strength  to  meet  the  stings 
That  arm  the  points  of  little  things  1 


WALLS  OF  CORN  AND  OTHER  POEMS.  59 


My  Wild  Rose. 

I  had  a  garden,  which  I  kept 
With  busy  hands  and  tender  care; 

And  once,  while  carelessly  I  slept, 
Fanned  softly  by  the  drowsy  air, 

A  wild  rose  to  my  garden  crept, 
And  blossomed  there. 

O,  sweet  surprise.     It  seemed  to  me, 
Some  fair  hand,  my  heart  to  bless, 

Had  brought  it  there,  from  wood  or  lee. 
It  came  unsought— 'twas  loved  no  less;- 

I  stooped  and  touched  it  tenderly, 
With  soft  caress. 

I  grew  to  love  it  passing  well; 

While  strange  exotics,  rich  and  rare, 
With  heart  of  gold  and  crimson  bell, 

Paid  grudgingly  for  constant  care, 
My  wild  rose,  as  in  a  woodland  dell, 
Bloomed  fresh  and  fair. 

I  watered  not,  I  did  not  prune. 

I  tied  it  not  with  cord  or  thong; 
Yet,  morn  by  morn  and  noon  by  noon, 

Through  days  of  summer,  hot  and  long, 
And  underneath  the  midnight  moon, 
From  branches  strong — 

Hung  clustered  blossoms  sweet  and  red; 

And  day  by  day  and  week  by  week, 
I  trod  the  path  which  toward  it  lead. 

Whate'er  my  mood,  I  did  not  speak, 
But  close  against  bowed  my  head 
And  pressed  my  cheek. 


60  WALLS  OF  CORN  AND  OTHER  POEMS. 

I  think  of  it  with  sudden  thrill. 

Now  wide  lands  lie,  deep  water  flows, 
Smiles  many  a  vale,  looms  many  a  hill 

Between  me  and  the  garden-close; 
Yet  fondly  I  remember  still 
My  sweet  wild  rose. 


Love. 

Fret  not  if  fateful  bar 

Cause  Love's  delay, 
Nor  if  some  baleful  star 

Cross  love  alway. 
Love  crossed  is  better  far 

Than  Love's  decay. 

Love  hidden  in  the  breast 

Is  hoarded  gold; 
By  brooding  thought  caressed. 

It  ne'er  grows  old. 
Love  satisfied,  at  rest, 

Oft  waxes  eold. 

We  pity  those  who  part 

To  meet  no  more; 
We  sorrow  for  the  smart, 

The  aching  sore; 
The  joined,  yet  twain  of  heart, 

Need  pity  more. 

Two  sit  at  table,  where 

Love  once  said  grace; 
A  bond  yet  holds  them  there, 

Still  face  to  face; 
Love,  jostled  out  by  Care, 

Has  fled  the  place. 


WALLS  OF  CORN  AND  OTHER  POEMS. 


There  live  whose  wedding  day 
Was  wreathed  in  gold: 

Who  saw  time  stretch  away 
With  joys  untold: 

Their  lives  creep  on  to-day, 
Gray,  sad,  and  cold. 

Love,  set  in  daily  groove, 
Drops  its  highest  mission. 

The  lives  of  thousands  prove 
This  hard  condition: 

The  sorest  test  of  Love 
Is  Love's  fruition. 

O  thou  who  through  long  years 

Hast  dwelt  alone, 
Whose  love,  enshrined  in  tears, 

Holds  secret  throne, 
This  thought  its  comfort  bears: 

'Tis  still  thine  own. 

Ye  wedded  who  remain, 

(But  ye  are  few) 
Through  all  life's  toil  and  pain, 

Warm,  tender,  true, 
Earth  holds,  on  hill  or  plain, 

Xone  blest  like  you. 


62  WALLS  OF  CORN  AND  OTHER  POKMS. 


The  Man  for  the  Hour. 

Where  shall  we  seek  him?    Where  well-leagued  corruption 
Welds  its  dark  compacts  in  some  secret  ring; 

Where  hungry  traitors  feed  upon  disruption; 
Where  Falsehood  brews  his  schemes,  and  Gold  is  King? 

Not  there!    The  man  we  want  scorns  clique  and  cabal; 

On  thievish  trickery  looks  sternly  down; 
Hating  a  lie,  dupe  of  no  specious  fable, 

Truth  is  his  breastplate,  honor  is  his  crown. 

He  loves  his  country, — serves  her  for  affection; 

Her  loaves  and  fishes  enter  not  his  plan; 
Firm  as  a  rock,  he  meets  the  tides  of  faction; 

Tool  of  no  clique,  he  fears  no  party-ban. 

He  loves  his  country;  so,  when  tempests  lower, 

And  the  ship  tosses  on  a  heaving  sea; 
His  be  the  watch, — his  be  the  gloomy  hour,— 

For  none  shall  keep  the  post  so  well  as  he. 

Trust  not  the  hireling  when  disasters  thicken; 

He  only  cares  to  cut  his  loaf  of  bread. 
And  coolly  sits  him  down  his  pay  to  reckon, 

While  growling  thunders  menace  overhead. 

If  great  his  wisdom,  greater  still  the  evil: 
A  clear,  cool  head,  a  gift  men's  hearts  to  ruin; 

A  giant's  strength,  all  bartered  to  the  devil, 
Is  a  great  sale,  with  much,  alas!  thrown  in. 

"No  man  but  has  his  price!"  said  Charles  the  Second,  — 
'Twas  thus  the  Royal  scoffer  sneered  his  sneer; 

But  then,  no  doubt,  'twas  by  himself  he  reckoned; 
He  had  his  price— or  several— that  is  clear. 


WALLS  OF  CORN  AND  OTHER  POEMS.  03 

Some  men  have  not.    Truth  is  not  dead,  nor  honor. 

Let  them  come  forward,  boldly  take  the  front, 
Hurl  their  indignant  scorn  at  bribe  and  donor, 

And  take,  as  patriots  should,  the  battle's  brunt. 

The  man  we  want  is  brave,  is  wise,  is  witty, 
With  strength  to  push  Corruption  to  the  wall; 

Must  have  for  high-bred  thieves  no  breast  of  pity; 
And  must  himself  be  honest— first  of  all. 


Coming  Home. 

Home  to  my  mother's  door.    Push  back  the  lock, 
She  will  not  open  it — no  use  to  knock. 
A  weight  is  on  my  breast;  oh!  never  yet 
Daughter  at  mother's  door  such  welcome  met! 

No  kiss  upon  my  lips;  no  word,  no  sound, 
No  loving  arms  reach  out  to  cla^p  me  round, 
I  cross  the  threshold  to  a  solemn  room, 
Peopled  with  shadows,  silent  as  the  tomb. 

The  heavy  air  is  chill— no  tire,  no  light: 
Only  pale  sunshine,  streaming  thin  and  white 
Through  the  bare  panes  upon  the  naked  floor. 
I  shrink  and  shiver— do  not  shut  the  door! 

Tread  lightly  on  the  creaking  boards,  speak  low; 
Start  not  the  hollow  echoes;  well  I  know 
They  sleep  in  every  corner.     Do  not  call, 
Lest  they  should  answer  loudly,  one  and  all. 

Her  voice  is  still.    'Twas  here  I  heard  it  last — 
Here  by  the  door.    The  tears  fell  thick  and  fast 
From  both  our  eyes;  to-day  the  drops  run  o'er 
From  only  mine;  and  she— she  weeps  no  more. 


WALLS  OF  CORN  AND  OTHER  POEMS.    , 

This  was  her  bed-room;  it  was  here,  you  say. 
She  laid  in  silence  all  that  summer  day. 
With  roses  (how  she  loved  them!)  at  her  head, 
Wreathed  on  the  wall  and  strewn  upon  her  bed. 

Now  she  lies  yonder,  and  a  sombre  pall 
The  dead  leaves  weave  above  her  as  they  fall; 
The  rains  that  beat,  the  autumn  Winds  that  blow, 
Are  making  ready  heavy  shrouds  of  snow. 

Whatever  covers  her,  she  still  sleeps  well; 
But  oh!  these  silent  rooms!    lean  not  tell 
Why  their  cold  emptiness  should  move  me  so; 
I  can  not  bear  it  longer — let  us  go. 


An  Autumn  Picture, 

The  mill  turns  by  the  waterfall; 

The  loaded  wagons  go  and  come; 
All  day  I  hear  the  teamster's  call, 

All  day  I  hear  the  thresher's  hum: 
And  many  a  shout  and  many  a  laugh 
Come  breaking  through  the  clouds  of  chaff. 

The  brook  glides  toward  the  sleeping  lake, 
Now  bubbling  over  shining  stones 

Now  under  clumps  of  brush  and  brake, 
Hushing  its  brawls  to  murmuring  tones, 

And  now  it  takes  its  winding  path 

Through  meadows  green  with  aftermath. 

The  frosty  twilight  early  falls, 

But  household  flres  burn  warm  and  red. 
The  cold  nriy  creep  without  the  walls, 

And  growing  things  be  stark  and  dead — 
No  matter,  so  the  hearth  be  bright 
When  household  faces  meet  at  night. 


WALLS  OF  CORN  AND  OTHER  POEMS.  65 


A  Housekeeper's  Question. 

While  autumn  tints  fleck  yonder  wood, 

And  lazy  winds  are  sleeping, 
I  feel  a  speculative  mood 

Come  slowly  o'er  me  creeping. 
A  strong  desire  within  me  stirs, 

To  see  some  questions  settled, 
On  which  the  great  philosophers 

Have  long  and  fiercely  battled. 
Calm  reason  now  shall  have  its  say, — 

(Dear  me;  my  bread  is  burning: 
Arid  I  am  wanted  right  away, 

To  see  about  that  churning.) 

I  sit  me  down  again  to  think, 

Commencing  at  creation. 
I  fain  would  follow,  link  by  link, 

The  long  stretch  of  graduation. 
But  that's  the  trouble — where  to  find 

The  first  stitch  of  beginning. 
The  tangled  thread  who  can  unwind 

To  where  commenced  the  spinning? 
What  laid  first  that  primordial  egg? 

From  whence  came  life  unending? 
(Do,  some  one,  answer  this,  I  beg, 

While  I— do  up  my  mending.) 

Philosophy,  that  swayed  and  bent, 

Through  many  a  revolution, 
Xow,  calmly  settled,  spreads  its  tent, 

And  rests  at  Evolution. 
But  Doubt  stands  gravely  at  the  door 

And  puts  its  puzzling  queries. 
This  question  asks  (and  many  more): 

What  did  commence  the  series? 


66  WALLS  OF  CORN  AND  OTHER  POEMS. 

Did  something  out  of  nothing  grow? — 
(That  soup  is  boiling  over! 

On  soup  depends  the  peace  of  home — 
I'll  just  take  off  the  covrer.) 

Things  are;  and  on  this  world,  we  know, 

Dwells  quite  a  population; 
But  how  came  mice  and  men  to  grow — 

I  give  up  that  equation. 
Some  other  problems  stagger  me. 

Yon  graceless  scamp  is  growing 
To  just  what  he  was  born  to  be; 

His  father  set  him  going; 
How  far  is  he  to  blame  if  Fate 

Has  botched  his  constitution? — 
(There  comes  a  beggar  at  the  gate, 

And  wants  my  contribution.) 

Still  other  things  I  want  to  know; 

Why  evil  tongues  are  longest, 
Why  deeds  of  darkness  prosper  so; 

Why  wicked  men  are  strongest. 
And  why  must  life,  e'en  with  the  best, 

Be  but  a  constant  battle, 
With  secret  foes  that  never  rest 

Until  the  last  death  rattle? 
Why  are  the  good  so  sore  beset? 

Why  is  man  born  a  sinner? 
( But  there's  a  nearer  question  yet: 

What  shall  I  get  for  dinner?) 


WALLS  OF  CORN  AND  OTHER  POEMS. 


Foreboding. 

I  will  not  look  for  storms  when  skies  are  glowing, 
With  hues  of  summer  sunsets  painted  o'er; 

When  all  my  tides  of  life  are  softly  flowing, 
I  will  not  listen  for  the  breaker's  roar. 

I  will  not  search  the  future  for  its  sorrows, 
Nor  peer  ahead  for  lions  in  the-  way, 

I  will  not  weep  o'er  possible  to-morrows — 
Sufficient  is  the  evil  of  to-day. 


Leave  Me  Alone. 

Leave  me  alone.    I  would  not  see  thee  more. 
The  storm  is  hushed,  the  agony  is  o'er. 

I  would  not  feel  again 

The  passion  and  the  pain. 
Do  not  again  come  knocking  at  my  door. 

Leave  me  alone.     Put  not  into  my  hand 

A  broken  cup,  though  bound  with  golden  band, 

Lest  I  with  thirsty  lip 

Once  more  its  passions  sip. 
Still  let  it  lie,  all  shattered  on  the  sand. 

Leave  me  alone.    I  followed,  long  ago, 
Joy  to  its  tomb,  with  tolling  marches  slow. 

Wake  not  my  buried  slain, 

Only  to  die  again. 
Leave  me  to  peace— 'tis  all  I  hope  to  know. 

Leave  me  alone.     I  may  not  quite  forget 

The  buried  love,  whose  sweetness  thrills  me  yet; 

But  let  the  willow  wave; 

Rake  not  a  grass-grown  grave: 
Break  not  the  turf,  for  fresh-rung  tears  to  wet. 


WALLS  OF  CORN  AND  OTHER  POEMS. 


Moods  of   March. 

Wild  is  the  dance  abroad  to-night, 

As  the  drifts  whirl  to  and  fro: 
Loud  is  the  voice  of  the  raging  storm; 

As  the  fierce  gusts  come  and  go; 
Black  are  the  panes  where  the  black  night  leans 

Like  a  homeless  ghost  in  the  snow. 

Black  are  the  panes  where  the  black  night  leans 

Within,  it  is  warm  and  light. 
The  flre  purrs  low  and  the  kettle  sings, 

And  the  lamps  shine  soft  and  bright. 
Little  care  we  for  the  wind  and  cold, 

And  little  care  we  for  the  night. 

What  is  that  cry,  out-voicing  the  storm, 
That  sounds  on  the  drifted  plain? 

What  is  that  throbbing,  thunderous  roar? 
It  is  only  the  midnight  train, 

Screaming  and  thundering  through  the  night, 
Like  a  monster  mad  with  pain, 

Silent  as  sleep  is  the  wintry  m  >rn; 

All  spotless  the  snowdrifts  lie: 
Pillars  of  smoke  from  household  flres 

Mount  straight  to  the  cold,  blue  sky. 
Yonder  a  "freight"  creeps  heavy,  and  slow, 

Where  the  night  train  thundered  by. 

Wild  was  the  night,  and  cold  the  morn; 

It  is  noon,  and  the  warm  wind  blows; 
The  eaves  run  streams,  and  under  our  feet 

Is  the  slush  of  the  melting  snow. 
Birds  are  singing,  the  air  is  like  May, 

And  the  wild  geese  north-ward  go. 


WALLS  OF  CORN  AND  OTHER  POEMS. 


Poets,  writing  your  odes  to  spring— 

Your  poems  of  stanzas  ten- 
Haste  to  finish,  for  moods  of  March 
Are  changeful  as  moods  of  men. 
I  tried  it  once,  but  the  wind  veered  north, 
And  the  ink  froze  on  my  pen. 


Two  Farewells. 

I  have  bidden  two  of  my  neighbors 

A  long  farewell  to-day. 
Both  were  going  on  a  journey, 

And  both  were  going  to  stay. 

One,  with  eyes  that  were  misty, 
Like  skies  all  heavy  with  rain, 

Said,  "In  the  years  that  are  coming, 
We  may  somewhere  meet  again." 

She  was  bound  for  Dakotah: 

And  watching  the  wagons  go— 

White-covered,  heavily  laden, 
Clogged  with  the  early  snow. 

I  thought  of  the  bleak,  cold  prairies, 
Of  the  toil  for  many  a  day, 

With  the  storms  of  wild  November 
Howling  along  the  way. 

The  other  lay  cold  and  silent; 

Said  naught,  nor  clasped  my  hand; 
And  we  were  friends— ah,  speechless 

Men  go  to  the  silent  land! 

Mute,  and  pale,  and  speechless 

This  wild  October  day, 
He  passed  down  into  the  shadows— 

Into  the  shadows  gray. 


WALLS  OF  CORN  AND  OTHER  POEMS. 


And  he  has  finished  his  journey; 

The  pain  and  the  toil  are  o'er; 
Nobly  he  wrought  his  life-work, 

Bravely  his  burdens  bore. 

To-night  the  winds  are  raving; 

The  snow  falls  over  his  head; 
Yet  he  turns  not  on  his  pillow, 

Stirs  not  in  his  lowly  bed. 

So  gone  are  two  of  my  neighbors; 

Empty  their  places  stand. 
One  has  gone  to  Dakotah, 

And  one  to  the  silent  land. 


The  Thread  of  Gray. 

I  have  woven  a  braid,  with  patient  toil. 

'Tis  the  work  of  many  a  day, 
There  are  colors  bright,  but  through  them  all 

Runs  a  thread  of  sober  gray. 

Blue  and  golden  and  green  and  red 

I  have  blended  as  best  I  may; 
But  through  them  all,  and  binding  them  all 

Runs  the  thread  of  sober  gray. 

The  blue  and  the  gold  twine  out  and  in, 

Like  rainbow  tints  astray; 
Then  brilliant  strands  of  green  and  red— 

But  always  the  thread  of  gray. 

And  I  think  how  like  to  an  earnest  life, 

With  its  pleasures  by  the  way, 
While  through  them  all  runs  a  steady  aim, 

Like  a  thread  of  sober  gray. 


WALLS  OF  CORN  AND  OTHER  POEMS. 


There  are  lights  and  laughter  and  feast  and  song, 

For  labor  must  have  its  play — 
But  over  and  under  and  through  them  all 

Euns  the  thread  of  sober  gray. 

The  mirth  shall  fail  and  the  lights  grow  dim, 

And  the  song  shall  die  away; 
But  the  worker's  crown  shall  be  his  who  keeps 

To  his  thread  of  sober  gray. 

Alas  for  him  who  into  his  braid 

Weaves  only  the  colors  gay! 
And  alas  for  the  close  of  the  human  life, 

That  loses  its  thread  of  gray! 


Rescue  the  Perishing. 

(Read  before  a  session  of  the  Temple  of  Honor,  in  Jefferson 
County,  Wisconsin.) 

Who  hath  the  trembling  hand, 

And  eyes  that  are  rheumy  and  red? 
Who,  amid  darkness  that  knows  no  morn, 

Mourns  over  hopes  that  are  dead? 
And  who  goes  staggering  by 

With  weak  and  tottering  feet, 
With  rags  on  his  back  and  cheeks  aflame, 
And  hot  lips  foul  with  words  of  shame— 

The  scoff  of  the  pitiless  street? 

And  who  sits,  sad  and  pale, 

Beside  her  desolate  hearth — 
A  wailing  babe  on  her  patient  knee, 

Sick  and  sad  from  its  birth? 
While  the  heavy  hours  drag  by, 

Of  what  does  this  watcher  think? 
Why  harks  she  so  as  steps  go  past? 
And  why,  when  one  step  comes  at  last, 

Does  she  start,  and  shiver,  and  shrink? 


WALLS  OF  CORN  AND  OTHER  POEMS. 


And  one  conies  tottering  in, 

With  reeking  and  poisoned  breath, 
She  well  may  fear,  for  she  knows  the  work 

Of  the  flery  cup  of  death. 
More  than  my  pen  can  paint, 

This  sorrowful  woman  knows 
Of  want,  of  woes  like  mountains  piled, 
Of  oaths,  and  curses,  and  ravings  wild, 

And  the  weight  of  heavy  blows. 

Reared  in  a  delicate  home, 
She  remembers  a  happy  time, 

When  days  were  leaves  of  a  pleasant  book 
All  written  in  dainty  rhyme. 

She  remembers  peaceful  nights, 
That  were  blessed  with  radiant  dreams; 

And  rosy  moms,  and  fleecy  skies, 

And  the  tender  light  in  a  mother's  eyes- 
How  long  ago  it  seems. 

She  remembers  one  day  of  joy, 

When  she  stood,  a  whits-robad  bride, 
By  the  side  of  one  who  was  more  to  her 

Than  all  the  great  world's  pride. 
She  stands  beside  him  now, 

Pale  with  a  mortal  fear. 
Her  pinched,  wan  cheeks  grow  whiter  yet, 
Her  great  wild  eyes  are  fixed  and  set 

On  his  face  so  marred  and  blear. 

It  has  come— that  awful  scourge, 

Whose  terrors  none  can  speak — 
And  the  lips  that  cursed  as  he  crossed  the  door 

Now  utter  shriek  on  shriek. 
He  sees  all  fearful  things! 

A  serpent  crawls  at  his  feet; 
The  dark  panes  glow  with  fierce  green  eyes, 
And  in  yon  dusky  corner  lies 

A  corpse  in  winding-sheet. 


WALLS  OF  CORN  AND  OTHER  POEMS.  73 

He  feels  on  his  shrinking  cheek 

The  napping  of  goblin  wings, 
And  over  his  flesh  the  slimy  touch 

Of  horrible  creeping  things. 
He  writhes  in  the  grip  of  fiends. 

That  drag  him  down  to  hell. 
Can  naught  redeem  from  a  hell  like  this? 
Could  an  angel's  hand  or  an  angel's  kiss? 

Hark  to  the  tale  I  tell. 

There  came  to  that  dread  abode— 

As  come  to  many  another — 
Men  of  a  tried  and  faithful  band, 

Who  look  upon  man  as  a  brother — 
Who  look  on  man  as  a  brother — 

However  low  he  may  sink; 
Who  stretch  forth  pitying  hands  to  save 
The  fallen  from  his  self-dug  grave, 

Though  he  stand  at  the  very  brink. 

They  came  with  soothing  tones, 

With  fuel,  and  food,  and  care; 
And  strong,  brave  words  of  cheerful  hope, 

For  the  drunkard's  dire  despair. 
They  bore  him  up  in  their  arms, 

They  lifted  him  out  of  the  pit- 
Arid  now,  in  a  home  of  calm  content, 
Where  cheerful  labor  and  rest  are  blent, 

Do  peace  and  plenty  sit. 

The  wife's  wan  cheek  grows  red, 

And  her  smile  is  fair  to  see; 
And  a  rosy  boy,  with  golden  hair, 

Climbs  to  his  father's  knee. 
Brothers!  such  work  as  this 

Deserves  a  laurel  crown ! 
For  the  solemn  joy  such  deeds  must  bring, 
The  loftiest  genius,  the  proudest  king, 

Might  well  on  his  knees  go  down. 


74  WALLS  OF  CORN  AND  OTHER  POEMS. 

Oh.  fathers  with  drunken  sons! 

Oh.  sons  with  drunken  siiv^: 
Would  that  the  bitter  tears  ye  shed 

Might  quench  these  hellish  fliv-: 
Oh,  people,  grand  and  strong! 

Arise  in  your  kingly  might. 
Put  from  your  midst  the  accursed  thing: — 
And  the  dove  of  peace,  with  brooding  wing, 

Shall  on  your  homes  alight. 


The  Snow  Blockade. 

Blocked  is  our  castle, — sudden  siege 

We  did  not  count  on.     All  our  doors 

Are  barricaded:  loudly  roars 
The  savage  wind,  and  tries  its  wedge- 
Its  wedge  of  ice,  with  sharpened  edge — 

Seeking  to  pierce  some  open  crack. 
But,  storm  our  fortress  as  you  may, 

And  heap  the  snow  with  fingers  black, 
Ye  demons, — 'tis  but  idle  play. 

Gather  your  forces,  tierce  and  strong; 

We  toss  you  back  defiant  song. 

You  cannot  enter  here— nor  yet 
Can  we  get  out.    You've  got  us  there! 
No  human  things  to-night  would  dare 

To  pass  the  bounds  the  storm  has  set, 
And  yet,  beleagured  as  we  are, 

This  lamp-lit  room  serene  and  still, 
Seems  like  some  green  and  peaceful  Me. 

Set  in  a  wild  and  heaving  sea. 

Strong  are  our  bolts;  our  oak-wood  fire 
Beats  back  the  cold.    The  night  is  dire 

With  the  black  storm,  but  what  care  we, 

Fenced  in  our  calm  security;' 


WALLS  OF  CORN  AND  OTHER  POEMS.  75 

Two  days  and  nights:— the  storm  is  done. 

T,he  wearied  winds  have  sunk  to  rest, 

Spent  with  their  strife.    Earth's  frozen  breast 
Lies  heaped  with  hills  beneath  the  dawn, 
The  demons  of  the  blast  are  gone — 

Their  work  remains.     The  rising  sun 
Pours  forth  its  light— pale,  cold  and  chill — 
Across  a  waste  all  dead  and  still. 
No  moving  thing,  no  tinkling  bells 

Forewarn  of  coming  steed  and  sleigh. 
No  sign  of  life,  save  smoke  that  swells 

From  chimney-tops  then  floats  away 
Still  gripes  the  cold,  with  grasp  so  chill, 

We  shiver,  hug  the  fire  and  say, 

"No  mortal  can  break  roads  to-day.'' 

The  cars  are  blocked  as  well  as  we, 

No  distant  roar  of  passing  train 

Comes  to  our  ears  across  the  plain. 
Silence  unbroken!    Can  it  be 

That  all  the  world  has  gone  to  sleep? 
No  news— and  shut  in  four  square  walls! 

We  wonder  how  the  fight  goes  on 
In  yonder  legislative  halls. 

And  what  they  do  at  Washington. 
We  wonder  what  new  taxes,  steep, 

It  is  decreed  that  we  must  pay, 

Who  earn  their  bread  from  day  to  day. 

At  length  the  seige  is  raised, 

Past  rural  palace,  past  the  hovel, 
The  way  is  cleared.    His  name  be  praised' 

Who  made  that  blessed  thing  a  shroud' 
Here  comes  the  mail — a  basket  full, 
Now  we  shall  know  what  wires  they  pull; 
What  party  rebels  bolt  the  track, 
Who  smiles  with  hope,  whose  brow  is  black. 


76  WALLS  OF  CORN  AND  OTHER  POEMS. 

Ah,  here  is  what  we  hoped  to  see; 

Reform  has  risen,  pure  and  strong, 
And  tossed  her  weight  upon  the  scales 

Where  Right  was  weighed  against  the  wrong 

And  lo,  another  victory! 
Send  out,  send  out  exultant  song 

Across  Wisconsin's  hills  and  vale§. 
Sing  out  the  sordid  Regency; 

Sing  out  Back  Pay  and  Press  Gag  Law; 

Sing  in  the  pure— hurah,  hurah. 


God  Knows. 

God  only  knows  what  fate  the  coming  morrow 

Holds  in  its  close  shut  hand — 
What  wave  of  joy,  what  whelming  tide  of  sorrow, 

May  flood  my  heart's  dry  land. 

But  whether  laughter,  with  its  bounding  billow, 

Rolls  up  in  joyous  swell, 
Or  sorrow  darkly  flows  beneath  the  willow, 

I  still  will  say,  'tis  well. 

And  I  will  strew  my  seed  upon  the  waters, — 

The  sweet  soil  lies  below, — 
Whether  with  smiles  or  tears  it  little  matters, 

So  it  may  spring  and  grow. 

I  know  my  hand  may  never  reap  its  sowing; 

And  yet  some  other  may. 
And  I  may  never  even  see  it  growing— 

So  short  is  my  little  day! 

Still  must  I  sow.     Though  I  may  go  forth  weeping, 

I  cannot,  dare  not  stay. 
God  grant  a  harvest!  though  I  may  be  sleeping 

Under  the  shadows  gray. 


WALLS  OF  CORN  AND  OTHER  POEMS.  77 

I  know  not  but  the  ruthless  frosts  may  wither, 

The  worms  may  eat  my  rose; 
There  may  not  be  one  flower  or  sheaf  to  gather. 

Blindly  I  wait— Grod  knows. 


A  Storm  on  the  Frontier. 

Hark  to  the  storm.     It  is  a  fearful  night; — 

A  night  of  piercing  cold  and  whirling  snow, 

And  drifts  that  loom  like  ghosts  in  sheeted  white, 

Heaped  by  the  tempest  in  its  mad  delight, 

But,  fiercely  as  the  ice  winds  may  blow, 

Sweep  as  they  may  across  these  open  lands, — 

Low  is  our  cabin  and  so  safely  stands. 

Come,  leave  your  work,  and  sit  beside  the  flre, 
The  storm  may  roar  and  beat  the  frosted  pane, 
And  at  the  bolted  door  may  tug  and  strain; 
Safe  is  our  shelter  though  the  strife  be  dire, 
And  warm  as  if  but  dropped  the  summer  rain, 
The' lamp  burns  brightly,  and  this  quiet  room 
Seems  like  a  heaven— if  such  a  thing  could  be — 
Besieged  by  tempests,  wrapped  in  midnight  gloom, 
Encompassed  by  a  wild  and  heaving  sea, 
While  round  us  howl  the  demons  of  the  night, 
How  passing  sweet  this  calm,  and  warmth,  and  light. 

What  ails  you,  Love?     Why  is  your  cheek  so  white? 
How  start  and  shiver — what  is  it  you  feel? 
Sure  we  are  safe,  and  naught  can  harm  us  here. 
You  have  a  groan?    Why,  that  but  goes  to  show 
What  tricks  a  woman's  pity  loves  to  play 
Upon  her  fears.     He  calm,  I  pray. 
'Twas  but  a  wilder  gust,  and  you  should  know, 
No  living  thing  would  venture  out  to-night. 


78  WALLS  OF  CORN  AND  OTHER  POEMS. 

A  winter  morn.    The  fierce,  wild  night  is  gone; 
The  mad  winds,  overspent,  have  sunk  to  rest: 
Their  work  remains.     The  prairie's  frozen  breast 
Lies  heaped  with  hills  beneath  the  splendid  dawn. 
Come  out  and  look,  it  is  a  goodly  sight— 
These  spotless  ranges  sparkling  in  the  sun; 
The  still,  white  world  created  into  night. 

The  paths  are  blocked.     A  pity  'tis  to  soil 

These  spotless  drifts;  yet,  what  the  night  wind  rears 

Must  man  destroy  at  morn.    The  spade  must 

Spoil  our  Alpine  scenery— but,  oh!  what's  here? 

A  something  harder  than  the  wind-packed  snow 

Resists  the  blade.    'Tis  mine  to  shudder  now, 

And  shrink  and  shiver  with  a  sickening  fear. 

A  still  white  face  the  fresh  piled  drift  below, 

A  frozen  form  wrapped  in  a  shroud  of  white 

Flung  round  it  by  the  black  hands  of  night. 

The  dead,  white  face,  the  form,  too  well  I  know, 

Had  I  but  heeded  what  you  said  last  night! 

You  heard  a  cry  through  all  the  gusty  roar; 

I  laughed  and  said  'twas  but  the  wind,  arid  so 

Here  lies  my  neighbor,  frozen  at  my  door. 


To  the  Memory  of  a  Young  Friend. 

Sing  a  song  with  sorrow  laden, 
Sing  a  requiem  sad  and  slow, 

For  the  pure  and  gentle  maiden 
Lying  with  her  head  so  low. 

Loving  was  she,  sweet  and  mild, 

Half  a  woman,  half  a  child. 

Hands  so  helpful,  past  the  telling. 

Ah,  how  soon  your  work  is  done! 
Feet  so  light,  so  fleet,  so  willing, 

Ah,  how  soon  your  race  is  run! 


WALLS  OF  CORN  AND  OTHER  POEMS.  79 


Bright  her  morning  rose,  and  yet 
Ere  its  prime  her  sun  is  set. 

In  the  great  world's  swelling  surges — 
Ceaseless  strife  of  loss  and  gain — 

Drowned  are  sorrow's  mournful  dirges, 
Sobs  of  anguish,  cries  of  pain. 

Why  for  her  such  tears  should  flow, 

Only  we  who  loved  her  know. 

Keen  the  wind  that  sweeps  the  prairie; 

Keener  yet  the  bitter  breath 
Blown  from  off  the  borders  dreary 

Of  the  silent  realm  of  Death. 
And  we  shiver — shrink  with  dread, 
As  we  cover  up  our  dead. 

Hard  is  parting— hard  to  sever 
Ties  that  bleed  at  every  strand; 

And  the  gap  shall  close,  ah,  never, 
In  that  broken  household  band .  . 

Yet,  while  we  perforce  must  weep, 

Sleep,  O  maiden!  sweetly  sleep. 

O'er  the.  snows,  descending  lightly, 
Softly  fold  their  ermine  screen; 

Choicest  flowers  shall  blossom  brightly; 
Grasses  wave  their  banners  green, 

Summer  breezes,  stealing  nigh, 

These  shall  breathe  thy  lullaby. 

Tender  is  our  common  mother, 
Shielding  from  the  storm  and  strife, 

While  Hope  whispers  of  another, 
And  a  brighter,  better  life. 

Even  amid  our  blinding  tears, 

Faith  serene  consoles  and  cheers. 


80  WALLS  OF  CORN  AND  OTHER  POEMS. 


The  Old  Soldier. 

(A  Birthday  Tribute  Inscribed  to  General  M.  Brayman. 

The  stress  of  the  day  is  over, 

And  calm  is  the  evening  time; 
Behind  are  the  heights  that  manhood 

Has  scaled  in  its  pride  and  prime. 

At  noon  was  the  smoke  of  battle 

Its  tumult,  its  crash  and  roar; 
But  the  boom  and  the  musket's  rattle 

The  veteran  hears  no  more. 

In  the  peace  of  the  quiet  evening, 

The  warfare  over  and  done 
Is  the  old  soldier  dreaming 

Of  victories  nobly  won. 

Dreams  he  of  fierce,  wild  charge, 
The  screaming  of  shot  and  shell. 

The  roll  of  drums  and  the  shouting? 
It  may  be— but  who  can  tell? 

Feels  he  the  cold  come  creeping 
With  the  sun  so  low  in  the  west? 

Nay!  though  his  locks  are  frosted 
The  heart  is  warm  in  his  breast. 

Soft  is  the  glow  of  the  sunset, 

And  it  touches  him  tenderly; 
Bright  was  the  day  that  is  setting, 

And  long  may  the  twilight  be. 


WALLS  OF  CORN  AND  OTHER  POEMS.  81 


At  the  Falls. 

In  this  deep  solitude,  amid  the  roar 
Of  falling  waters,  and  soft  folds  of  spray, 

I  sit  upon  the  green  and  sedgy  shore — 
Sit  silent,  while  the  river  rolls  away. 

What  heed  I  here  the  hollow  masquerade 
That  men  call  life?  It  surely  heeds  riot  me; 

I  am  not  missed  from  the  gay  cavalcade— 
None  whisper,  "  This  was  her  place,  where  is  she  ?  " 

Little  I  reck!  The  page  upon  my  knee 
Talks  honestly,  and  yon  white  waterfall 

Pours  a  deep  voice  of  truth  unceasingly, 
While  the  gay  world  is  but  a  masquer's  ball. 


Seeing  the  Editors. 

I  went  to  see  the  Editors,  in  great  Milwaukee  town, 

And  some  were  old,  with  hoary  hair,  some  young,  with  locks 

of  brown, 
But,  old  or  young,   or  tall  or  short,  when  all  was  said  and 

done, 
They  seemed  a  goodly  set  of  men  as  e'er  the  sun  shone  on. 

They  had  come  from  north  and  south,  they  had  come  from 

east  and  west, 
Down  from  the  northern  pine  lands,  up  from  the  prairie's 

breast, 

Men  of  the  Leading  Journals,  men  of  the  Local  Sheet, 
Came  flocking  in   together,  and  I  watched  them  meet  and 

greet. 


82  WALLS  OF  CORN  AND  OTHER  POEMS. 

At  this  I  greatly  wondered;  I  saw  each  meet  the  other, 
With  a  smile  and  a  clasping  hand,  as  if  he  were  his  brother. 
Fair  words  and  kindly  cheer  were  the  order  of  the  day: 
The  pipe  of  p9ace  went  round,  and  the  sword  was  laid  away. 

"Are  the^e  friends  or  enemies'?"  I  questioned  silently: 

I  recalled  the  odious  names  they  have  called  each  otherby,— 

'•Idiot,"   '-knave,"  and   "sorehead"— all  these,    and    many 

more, 
They  have  used  to  pelt  each  other— is  their  rancor  spent 

and  o'er? 

They  talked  of  their  position,  of  the  duty  of  the  press; 
How  opponents  should  be  treated — with  honest  friendli 
ness. 

A  fair  and  lovely  theory!  the  practice  seems  to  be 
To  call  each  man  a  rascal,  who  don't  agree  with  me. 

What  do  they  mean,   I  wonder,   by    the   "freedom  of  the 

press?" 

Is  it  this,— that  each  man  is  free  to  vent  his  "cussedness?" 
Free  to  ban  and  blacken  whoever  may  chance  to  be 
On  the  other  side  of  the  fence?-  O  glorious  liberty! 

But  here  they  were— these  warriors  who  haveoft  eachother 

flayed, — 

Talking  in  tones  fraternal  as  they  drank  their  lemonade; 
And  I  wondered  if  the  time,  so  long  foretold,  had   come, — 
The  day  of  peace  and  brotherhood— the  great  Millennium. 

I  have  read  the  papers  since,  and  I  see  my  hope  was  vain; 
For  the  hatchet  that  was   buried,   they  have  dug  it   up 

again: 

The  sword  has  left  its  scabbard,  the  spiked  guns  roar  away. 
Arid  he  who  was  a  "sorehead,"  is  a  "sorehead"'  to-day. 
Each  man  is  at  his  desk;  he  has  grasped  the  wires  again, 
And  is  pulling  for  his  party,  with  all  his  might  and   main 
Opponents  thresh  each  other,  who  shook   hands  the  other 

day: 
And  I  qu3Stion, —  do  they  mean  one-half  oi  what  they  say? 


WALLS  OF  CORN  AND  OTHER  POEMS. 


Taught  by  a  Bird. 

An  April  day:  the  cold  wind  blew, 
The  dark  clouds  lowered,  the  thick  snow  flew, 
A«nd  where  the  springing  grasses  lay  green, 
Ragged  patches  of  white  were  seen. 

Snow  everywhere!    I  gazed  with  a  sigh, 
As  the  big  flakes  fell  from  the  gloomy  sky; 
Loading  the  limbs  of  the  budding  trees, 
Filling  the  hollows  about  their  knees. 

Had  winter  come  back — the  vanquished  king  — 
And  rudely  throttled  the  maiden,  spring? 
Rut  lo!  from  amid  the  storm  I  heard 
The  sweet,  glad  song  of  a  tiny  bird. 

On  a  tufted  twig,  its  feet  in  the  snow, 
Swung  by  the  cold  wind  to  and  fro, 
It  sat  and  sang— that  wee  brown  bird  — 
Putting  to  shame  my  petulant  word. 

The  darkness  lifted,  the  storm  was  done; 
Through  the  broken  cloud-rifts  shone  the  sun; 
A  breath  came  up  from  the  south,  and  the  snow 
Melted  away  in  genial  glow. 

Spring  reigned  again;  and  again  I  heard 
The  joyous  song  of  that  dear  brown  bird. 
With  quickened  pulses,  and  heart  aglow, 
I  caught  the  refrain,  "  I  told  you  so." 

Ah.  little  bird,  had  I  faith  like  you, 
When  life  and  the  world  are  dark  to  view! 
When  lowering  skies  are  above  me  bent, 
Could  I  feel  your  trust  and  your  sweet  content! 


84  WALLS  OF  CORN  AND  OTHER  POEMS. 


You  sang,  your  tender  feet  in  the  snow, 
Swung  by  the  cold  wind  to  and  fro. 
Your  faith  was  sure,  and  now  I  repeat 
Over  and  over  the  lesson  so  sweet. 


Tar-and-Feathcr  Reform. 

Pour  the  tar  on,  pour  it  thick; 
Bring  the  feathers,  make  them  stick 
On  her  temples  smooth  and  fair, 
In  the  meshes  of  her  hair; 
There,  now,  shameless  courtesen, 
Charm  your  lovers  if  you  can. 

But  the  lovers— where  are  they? 
Silently  they  slink  away. 
Boys  must  sow  wild  oats,  you  know; 
Scold  them  well  and  let  them  go. 
Boys  are  boys;  to  err  is  human — 
Tar  and  feathers  for  the  woman. 

Woman?    She  is  but  a  child. 
Well,  no  matter;  drive  her  wild. 
Young  and  fair?    So  much  the  worse. 
Brand  her  deeper,  let  the  curse 
On  her  young  head  weighing  down, 
Crush  her,  force  her  on  the  town. 

She  is  fallen,  that's  enough, 

Give  her,  henceforth,  kick  and  cuff. 

While  we  work  and  pray  and  weep 

For  the  heathen  o'er  the  deep, 

We  are  saints  of  purity — 

We  are  Christians— don't  you  see? 


WALLS  OF  CORN  AND  OTHER  POEMS.  85 

When  we  women  have  our  way. 
When  it  comes — that  glorious  day  — 
When  we  sit  in  honor  great, 
Piloting  the  ship  of  state, 
All  shall  then,  as  well  as  we, 
Practice  this  our  theory: 

Never  right  a  sinking  boat, 

When  a  woman  is  afloat: 

If  her  record  holds  a  flaw, 

Do  not  throw  her  e'en  a  straw; 

Kick  her  roughly,  push  her  down: 

Hold  her  under,  let  her  drown! 


Died  of  Want. 

Tread  lightly  on  the  creaking  floors; 

Speak  softly— so; 

With  careful  fingers  ope  and  shut  the  doors; 
Calk  up  that  crack  through  which  the  night  rain  pours: 

These  rafters  low 
Bend  o'er  a  traveler  to  unseen  shores, 

Where  all  must  go. 

A  scanty  bed,  a  drear,  unfurnished  room; 

Dire  noxious  air, 

Where  pent-up  Fever  breathes  its  hot  simoon, 
And  poverty  has  piled  its  brush  and  broom, 

Till  all  is  bare: 
A  pale,  pinched  face  amid  the  midnight  gloom, 

And  damp,  white  hair, 

'Tis  the  last  chapter  of  a  story  old 

One  period  more, 

To  finish  all,  and  the  sad  tale  is  told. 
Too  late  comes  Charity,  with  generous  gold 

And  pity  sore; 
Too  long  since  Famine  and  Disease  and  Cold 

Entered  the  door. 


86  WALLS  OF  CORN  AND  OTHER  POEMS. 

A  glimmer  of  gray  diiwn  through  sleet  and  rain. 

That  beat  and  beat 
Witb  icy  hands  upon  the  dingy  pane. 
Within,  a  solemn  hush.     Fold  smooth  and  plain 

The  winding  sheet. 
But  see!  the  poor  lips  wear  a  smile  again, 

Serene  and  sweet. 

Softly,  good  driver!  scour  not  quite  so  fast 

The  stony  pave. 

You  know  not  how  your  flnal  lot  is  cast; 
Some  dire  disaster,  some  unlooked-for  blast 

Or  whelming  wave, 
May  land  you,  like  this  poor  old  man.  at  last, 

In  pauper's  grave. 

Replace  the  sod.    He  sleeps  on  pillow  low, 

Like  other  dead. 

His  deep  and  pulseless  rest  no  dreams  shall  know- 
No  shivering  pangs,  though  freezing  winds  shall  blow 

Across  his  bed. 
But,  softly  fall,  O  rain,  and  winter  snow, 

Above  his  head. 


My  Mother's  Wheel. 

Broken,  dismantled!  would  that  it  were  minei 
I  would  not  keep  it  in  that  dusty  nook, 

Where  tangled  cobwebs  cross  and  intertwine, 
And  old,  grim  spiders  from  their  corners  look. 

From  distaff,  band,  and  polished  rim,  are  hung 
The  dusty  meshes.    Black  the  spindle  is, 

Crooke'd,  and  rusty— a  dead,  silent  tongue, 
Tl-^.t  r-rc?  ir^o  v.*H""!rop  rrrrio  -tl'f>ro  it  lio". 


WALLS  OF  CORN  AND  OTHER  POEMS.  87 

Ah,  dear  to  me  is  the  forsaken  thing! 

I  gaze  upon  it  and  my  eyes  grow  dim; 
For  I  can  see  my  mother,  hear  her  sing, 

As  winds  the  shining  thread,  and  whirls  the  rim. 

So  sweet  she  sang— her  youngest  on  her  knee — 
Now  a  low  warble,  now  some  grand  old  hymn, 

Sublime,  exultant,  full  of  victory, 
Triumphant  as  the  songs  of  seraphim. 

Sweet  toiler!  through  her  life  of  crowded  care, 
While  grief  came  oft,  and  pain,  and  weariness, 

Still  swelled  the  anthem,  still  was  breathed  the  prayer, 
Till  death  came  clasping  with  its  cold  caress. 

She  sings  no  more;  beside  the  chimney  wide 
No  more  she  spins.     Years  come  and  go: 

Above  her  grave  on  the  lone  hillside, 
The  snow  drifts  lie,  the  summer  grasses  grow. 


Dick  and  I. 

I  had  a  lover  once— 'twas  long  ago  — 
I  must  have  been  some  eiglit  or  nine,  or  so, 
And  he  perhaps  was  ten.    He  had  blue  eyes, 
And  hair  like  cotton-weed,  that  floats  and  flies. 
Or — better,  like  like  a  hand  of  bleachen  flax, 
He  was  not  handsome— but.  I'm  telling  "fax,'1 
And  must  be  acurate.    A  "poets  lie" 
May  always  be  aesthetic— reason  why — 
The  poet  paints  from  out  his  own  invention; 
While  I— I've  only  facts  to  mention. 

I  loved  him,  if  all  else  were  homely  prose, 
There's  poetry  in  that.  A  bright  red  rose 
Creeps  through  a  cranny  in  a  naked  wall, 
And  blossoms  there:— it  is  a  rose  for  all. 


88  WALLS  OF  CORN  AND  OTHER  POEMS. 

My  rose  bloomed  early  and  its  growth  was  quick— 
Much  like  a  mushroom's.     Ah,  white-headed  Dick! 
If  this  should  meet  your  eye.  you  will  remember 
One  rainy  day— 'twas  in  the  gray  November. 

A  monstrous  kettle  hanging  from  the  crane, 
With  steam  clouds  rolling  up  to  meet  the  rain; 
A  great  old  fireplace,  with  open  maw: 
Two  children  sucking  cider  through  a  straw; 
Such  was  the  tableau;  as  the  night  closed  in, 
The  firelight  with  the  darknass  fought  to  win, 
Pushing  the  shadows  back  against  the  walls. 
Where  bacon  hung,  dried  apples,  coats  and  shawls. 

The  night  grew  darker.    Still  the  autumn  rain 
Beat  with  its  wet  on  the  window  pane; 
Hut  we  two  liked  it  well.     We  put  together 
Our  two  small  heads,  and  sagely  on  the  weather 
Exchanged  congratulations.    No  moonlight. 
The  steady  rain— sure,  Dick  must  stay  all  night. 

We  had  it  settled,  and  we  went  to  play. 

•'Blindfold,"  "I  spy,"  and  even  "Pull  away," 

Came  on  in  turn,    The  evening  was  near  spent, 

And  nought  had  troubled  our  complete  content, 

But  psrfect  happiness— we  grasp  it,  fold  it, 

Thinking  it  ours,  alas!  we  never  hold  it 

For  any  length  of  time.     It  slips  and  quivers, 

And  something  hits  and  knocks  it  into  shivers. 

And  this  is  what  hit  ours— this  the  shock 

That  fell  upon  our  peace  at  nine  o'clock. 

Fate  lifted  up  its  hand  so  hard  and  grim, 

And  struck  this  blow:    Dick's  mother  sent  for  him! 

He  cried,  and  so  did  I.     Ah  well, 

It  is  a  simple  story  that  I  tell, 

And  you  may  laugh,  perchance— yet  it  is  real, 

And  serves  to  show  the  griefs  that  children  feel, 


WALLS  OF  CORN  AND  OTHER  POEMS.  89 


Which  grown  folks  do  not  count  on.    I  have  seen 

Since  then  some  sorrow,  some  pangs  sharp  and  keen; 

Have  even  dreamed  I  stood  at  Heaven's  door, 

And  saw  it  shut  on  me  forever  more. 

Yet  that  one  night,  so  gloomy  and  so  wet, 

With  rain  and  tears,  I've  not  forgotten  yet. 


My  Hickory  Tree. 

Towering  close  at  my  cottage  door, 

Tall  and  royal,  and  grand  to  see. 
With  broad  arms  reaching  the  greensward  o'er — 

O,  a  mighty  King  is  my  hickory  tree! 

Changing  its  guise  with  the  changing  scene, 
As  the  wheels  of  the  year  are  onward  rolled; 

Clad  all  the  summer  in  deepest  green. 
Now  resplendent  in  robes  of  gold. 

Here  gather  the  earliest  birds  of  spring, 
When  the  earth  awakes  from  its  frozen  rest — 

The  tiny  bluebird  with  sapphire  wing, 
The  robin  sweet  with  its  glowing  breast. 

When  vines  are  green  at  the  window  frame, 
The  brown  thrush  sings  and  the  dove  coos  low, 

And  the  oriole  comes  like  a  flash  of  flame, 
And  hangs  its  nest  from  the  outmost  bow. 

On  the  velvet  grass,  in  the  grateful  shade, 
The  workmen  lie  as  they  rest  at  noon, 

Cheered  by  the  bird  songs  overhead, 
Lulled  by  the  honey  bee's  drowsy  tune. 

And  here,  with  friends,  on  summer  eves, 
We  sit  in  the  sunset's  mellow  glow — 

Sit  till  the  night  winds  toss  the  leaves, 
And  moonbeams  sift  to  the  sward  below. 


WALLS  OF  CORN  AND  OTHER  POEMS. 


O  happy  scenes!    But  now  no  more 
We  seek  the  shade;  the  wind  blows  cold; 

The  frost  comes  creeping  about  the  door; 
The  dead  flowers  rot  on  the  sodden  mold. 

Splendid  yet  is  my  hickory  tree, 

As  the  gorgeous  leaves  come  fluttering  down 
Like  flakes  of  gold:  but  soon  I  shall  see 

Only  sightless  heaps,  all  sere  and  brown. 

Shook  by  the  winds  that  go  hurrying  by, 
Down  to  the  turf  the  ripe  nuts  fall; 

And  the  boughs  shall  soon  stretch  toward  the  sky, 
Stripped  of  their  nuts  and  leaves  and  all. 

When  deep  drifts  lie  on  the  frozen  farms, 

The  naked  giant,  in  scornful  glee, 
Shall  toss  in  the  storm  his  strong,  bare  arms — 

O,  a  mighty  King  is  my  hickory  tree  ! 


Our  Friendship. 

They  say  true  friendship  changeth  not, 

But  grows  and  grows; 

Through  chance,  and  time,  and  treacherous  plot, 
Through  change  of  scene  and  change  of  lot, 

Still  changeless  shows. 

If  this  be  true,  sure  here  is  seen 

Some  great  mistake! 
The  friend  of  years  no  friend  hath  been, 
Else  naught  on  earth  could  come  between, 

The  bond  to  break. 

Ami,  then,  false?    I  meant  no  lie; 

Yet  nevermore 

With  friendship  on  my  lip,  can  I, 
As  oft  aforetime,  seek  thine  eye, 

Or  cross  thv  door! 


WALLS  OF  CORN  AND  OTHER  POEMS. 


Dost  marvel  why?    'Tis  quickly  told. 

Here  at  thy  feet 
I  fling  away  our  friendship  old, 
Because  henceforth  our  two  hearts  hold 

A  tie  more  sweet! 

I  love  thee!  therefore  can  we  be 

No  longer  friends. 
Thou  takest  what  I  offer  thee — 
Thy  whole  heart's  sweetness  givest  me. 

So  friendship  ends. 


Over  Niagara. 

Harken,  friends,  while  I  tell  you — 

I  will  be  as  brief  as  I  may- 
Flow,  while  the  drums  were  beating, 
And  the  great  guns  boomed  away, 
A  pair  of  blithe  young  lovers 
Kept  Independence  Day. 

I  was  passing  the  bridge  up  yonder, 
That  crosses  the  creek,  you  know, 

Near  where  it  enters  the  river, 
That  flows  with  a  mighty  flow 

Toward  where  the  cataract  thunders, 
Only  three  miles  below. 

I  heard  sweet  peals  of  laughter 

Ring  over  the  river  wide, 
And  looked  where  a  boat  went  tossing 

Out  toward  the  rapid  tide, 
And  saw  the  prow  was  headed 

Toward  the  American  side. 

I  watched  the  boy  that  was  rowing, 
And  the  sjirl  tint  sat  in  the  stern. 


•>2  WALLS  OF  CORN  AND  OTHER  POEMS. 

And  I  saw  that  the  two  were  lovers 

It  took  but  a  glance  to  learn — 
They  were  taking  their  trip  of  pleasure- 
Would  they  ever,  ever  return? 

I  saw  that  he  rowed  but  badly, 
And  my  heart  sank  at  the  sight; 

It  is  only  the  skillful  oarsman, 
With  a  touch  both  firm  and  light, 

That  here  rows  across  the  ri  ver 
And  ever  returns  at  night. 

I  watched  the  frail  craft  tossing, 

In  a  tremor  of  dead  suspense: 
And  I  held  my  breath  in  terror 

That  swept  over  every  sense, 
As  I  saw  the  boat  was  heading 

Outside  of  the  "  river  fence." 

They  have  passed  it  now!    In  the  rapids. 

Where  never  a  boat  crossed  o'er, 
They  were  swinging  nearer  and  nearer 

The  cataract's  thundering  roar. 
They  will  never  come  back  to  the  Queen's  land, 

Nor  reach  the  American  shore! 

There  are  flecks  of  foam  on  the  water; 

There  are  white-caps  on  the  tide; 
And  swifter,  and  even  swifter 

Down  to  their  doom  they  glide. 
Not  thus  in  the  joyful  morning 

Did  the  youth  think  to  wed  his  bride! 

I  hear  the  girl  shriek  wildly, 
As  she  points  to  the  rocks  before: 

I  see  the  boy's  mad  effort 
To  turn  the  boat  to  the  shore; 

Then  I  watch  him  look  for  something- 
Great  God!  he  had  dropped  an  oar  I 


WALLS  OP  CORN  AND  OTHER  POEMS.  93 

My  old  knees  they  smote  together; 

I  could  feel  my  cheeks  grow  pale, 
As  I  heard  above  all  the  roaring, 

The  sound  of  that  maiden's  wail; 
And  I  clutched  as  if  I  were  drowning, 

My  hands  to  the  wooden  rail. 

Still  I  gazed,  in  my  frozen  terror, 

For  I  could  not  turn  away; 
And  I  saw  them  clinging  together, 

As  down  in  the  boat  they  lay; 
And  the  sight  my  midnight  pillow 

Will  haunt  till  my  dying  day. 

I  saw  the  boat  swing  over 

The  crests  of  the  first  descent; 
It  was  lost  to  sight  for  a  moment 

Where  the  hollowed  waters  bent; 
The  next,  on  a  rock,  foam-covered, 

It  poised,  then  downward  went. 

I  saw  no  more;  but  others 

Standing  beside  the  fall, 
Watching  the  beautiful  rainbow 

That  spans  the  eternal  wall, 
Beheld  a  few  black  fragments 

Of  a  boat— and  that  was  all. 


Down  Stream. 

I  see  a  boat  drift  lightly  by, 

The  stream  is  wide,  the  current  slow; 

No  ripples  break  the  sunbeam's  glow; 
Yet  well  I  know  that,  ceaselessly, 

The  great  fall  thunders  down  below. 


94  WALLS  OF  CORN  AND  OTHER  POEMS. 

I  see  the  boatman  idly  lean. 

With  listless  hand  upon  his  oar, 
Unheeding  that  the  summer  shore, 

With  safe,  still  coves  and  banks  of  green, 
Recedes  behind  him  more  and  more. 

The  sunlight  gilds  the  golden  hair 

That  clusters  round  his  stately  head; 

A  lurid  flush,  youth's  rose  instead. 
Dyes  rounded  cheek  and  forehead  fair, 

Caught  from  the  wine  cup's  ruby-red. 

I  watch  him,  and  I  hold  my  breath! 
He  seems  like  one  wrapped  in  a  dream: 
While  swiftly  rolls  the  narrowed  stream, 

And,  bending  o'er  yon  gulf  of  death, 
I  see  the  baleful  iris  gleam. 

Why  floats  he  so,  like  one  asleep, 
While  nearer  sounds  that  awful  roar? 
Awake,  O  friend!  take  up  thine  oar, 

And  stem  the  rapid's  fatal  sweep, 
Turn  hither,  hither,  I  implore. 

I  stretch  my  arms  and  loudly  cry; 
I  call  until  the  welkin  rings, 
At  last  he  hears—  the  frail  boat  springs, 

Trembles  a  moment  doubtfully, 
Then  slowly,  landward  swings. 

Saved,  saved  at  last!    Adrip  with  spray, 
I  see  him  stand  upon  the  shore; 
And  then  my  senses  swim;  the  roar 

Sounds  like  a  murmur  far  away: — 
Would  I  might  hear  it  never  more! 


WALLS  OF  CORN  AND  OTHER  POEMS. 


Magic  Stones. 

Three  oval  stones,  worn  by  the  lapping  waters 
Of  wide  Lake  Michigan.    As  smooth  are  they 

As  if  some  lapidary's  patient  lingers 
Had  wrought  their  polished  disks  of  mottled  gray. 

Long  have  I  kept  them;  and  I  well  remember, 
When,  where  I  picked  them  up.    A  summer's  day 

Drew  near  its  close;  the  sunset  glory 
Flooded  the  land  and  on  the  water  lay. 

Rut  not  alone  the  sunset's  gold  and  crimson, 
The  sparkling  waves,  the  white  sails  moving  slow, 

These  stones  recall.    Dear  friends  were  there  beside  me, 
With  faces  radiant  in  the  evening  glow. 

What  happiness  it  was  to  talk  and  listen, 
To  say  with  confidence  the  things  we  thought! 

To  look  straight  into  the  eyes  whose  open  shining 
Itself  was  speech,  frank,  full,  concealing  naught! 

The  city,  with  its  restless,  fevered  pulses, 
Was  near,  yet  not  in  hearing,  not  in  sight, 

No  smoke  of  furnaces  nor  roar  of  traffic, 
Marred  the  still  beauty  of  the  evening  light. 

Alone,  we  few.  beside  the  blue-green  water, 
To  us,  for  one  brief  hour,  the  world  was  not. 

Its  wild  ambitions,  and  its  throes  of  passion, 
Its  fierce  and  selfish  struggles  all  forgot. 

And  while  we  stood  and  talked,  the  glory  faded, 
The  shores  grew  dimmer  in  the  failing  light; 

The  shadows  deepened  and  the  lake  grew  darker, 
The  white  sails  vanished  in  the  gathering  night. 


%  WALLS  OF  CORN  AND  OTHER  POEMS. 

'Twas  years  ago,  and  time  hath  wrought  its  changes 
Yet  have  these  magic  stones  the  power  to  wake 

A  throbbing  memory  of  friendly  voices, 
Heard  in  the  twilight,  by  the  darkening  lake. 


Dreams. 

When  the  sun  is  shining  o'er  us, 

And  our  duties  lie  before  us, 
We  lay  our  wishes  by  on  secret  shelves: 

In  their  napkins,  wrapped  securely, 

We  enfold  them,  thinking  surely 
They  are  hidden  both  from  others  and  ourselves. 

But  when  slumber  sweetly  holds  us, 

And  in  velvet  arms  enfold  us, 
And  the  moonlight  through  the  curtain  faintly  streams; 

Then  from  out  their  hiding  places, 

Clad  in  soft,  bewitching  graces, 
Come  our  wishes  to  inspire  and  rule  our  dreams. 

How  they  haunt  the  midnight  pillow! 

How  the  pulse  swells,  like  a  billow, 
As  the  dreamer  clasps  the  thing  he  most  desires! 

And  his  throbbing  heart  rejoices 

As  he  hears  enchanting  voices 
Singing,  keeping  rythmic  time  to  golden  lyres. 

Wants  he  riches?  power?  honor? 

Fancy  is  a  lavish  donor, 
All  he  craves  bestowing  on  his  longing  soul. 

Oh,  the  ripe,  delicious  sweetness! 

Oh,  the  rare  and  rich  completeness, 
As  he  quaffs  with  thirsty  lips  the  brimming  bowl! 

But  alas!  the  sudden  waking, 
When  above  the  hill  tops  breaking, 


WALLS  OF  CORN  AND  OTHER  POEMS. 


With  its  weary  burdens  bringing,  comes  the  day! 

Then  the  dreamer  grasps  the  real, 

Puts  aside  his  sweet  ideal, 
Deftly  hides  his  dream  within  its  nook  away. 


October  Days. 

Push  back  the  curtains  and  fling  wide  the  door; 

Shut  not  away  the  light  nor  the  sweet  air, 
Let  the  checked  sunbeams  play  upon  the  floor, 

And  on  my  head  low  bowed,  and  on  my  hair. 

Would  1  could  sing,  in  words  of  melody, 
The  hazy  sweetness  of  this  wondrous  time! 

Low  would  I  pitch  my  voice:    The  song  should  be 
A  soft,  low  chant,  set  to  a  dreamy  rhyme. 

NQ  loud,  high  notes  for  tender  days  like  these! 

No  trumpet  tones,  no  swelling  words  of  pride, 
Beneath  these  skies,  so  like  dim  summer  seas, 

Where  hazy  ships  of  clouds  at  anchor  ride. 

At  peace  are  earth  and  sky,  while  softly  fall 
The  brown  leaves  at  my  feet.    A  holy  palrn 

Rests  in  a  benediction  over  all. 
O  silent  peace!    O  days  of  silent  calm! 

And  passion,  like  the  winds,  lies  hushed  and  still; 

A  throng  of  gentle  thoughts,  sweet,  calm  and  pure, 
Knock  at  my  door  and  lightly  cross  the  sill. 

Would  that  their  fair  feet  might  stay,  their  reign  endure! 

But  storms  will  come.    The  haze  upon  the  hills 
Will  yield  to  blinding  gusts  of  sleet  and  snow; 

And,  for  this  peace  that  all  my  being  fills, 
The  tides  of  battle  shall  surge  to  and  fro. 


98  WALLS  OF  CORN  AND  OTHER  POEMS. 

Life  is  a  struggle:  and  'tis  better  so. 

Who  treads  its  stormy  steeps,  its  stony  ways, 
And  breasts  its  wintry  blasts,  must  battling  go. 

And  yet — it  hath  its  Indian  summer  days. 


Becalmed. 

Adrift  in  my  little  boat, 

Becalmed  on  the  cold,  gray  sea — 
And  chill  mists  lazily  float 

All  over  my  boat  and  me. 

The  breezes  lie  dead  asleep — 
Not  a  breath  in  the  idle  sails! 

And  I  wearily  watch  and  weep, 
And  listen  for  distant  gales. 

Shall  I  still  drop  useless  tears, 
And  sit  here  and  wait  and  wait, 

Till  my  head  grows  gray  with  years, 
For  the  wind  that  may  come  too  late? 

To  be  idle  is  shame  to  the  strong! 

I  will  lay  my  hand  to  the  oar; 
And  the  craft  that  has  waited  long, 

Shall  wait  for  the  wind  no  more! 


Is  Marriage  a  Failure? 

When  we  were  young,  and  Love  was  young, 
And  life  was  bright  with  morning  dew, 

And  Hope  sang  sweet  with  silver  tongue. 
I  did  not  think  so  then— did  you? 

The  years  went  by.    Up  stony  roads 
We  toiled,  still  hand  in  hand,  we  two, 

While  dear  love  lightened  heaviest  loads — 
I  did  not  think  so  then — did  you? 


WALLS  OF  CORN  AND  OTHER  POEMS.  99 


Sore  trouble  cams;  and  griefs  and  fears 
Sat  at  our  herath  the  sad  days  through; 

And  while  each  dried  the  other's  tears, 
I  did  not  think  so  then — did  you? 

While  henceforth  through  the  shadows  lead 
Dim  down-hill  piths  before  us  two, 

And  each  of  us  had  greatest  needs, 
I  do  not  think  so  now— do  you? 

When  throngh  the  dark  vale  all  must  tread 
One  passes,  and  on  bosom  true, 
Leans  at  last  a  dying  head — 
I  will  not  think  so  then,  will  you? 


Laura. 

A  Tillage  street,  a  cottage-home, 

A  summer  night,  a  starry  sky, 
A  moon-lit  porch  where  woodbine  climb, 

A  sound  of  late  feet  hurrying  by. 

Two  lovers,  underneath  the  vines, 
With  warm  hands  clasped,  look  out  on  life — 

A  glowing  scene,  all  sunny  lines- 
No  tears,  no  clouds,  no  stormy  strife. 

A  sweet  perspective  stretched  afar, 
With  rippling  streams  and  vales  of  green, 

And  love  the  steady  guiding  star; 
Could  aught,  aught  be  thrust  between? 

How  fair  they  were, — cheek  pressed  to  cheek, 
Gold  locks  and  brown  in  mingled  strands, — 

A  fairer  picture  one  might  seek 
In  vain  through  all  Earth's  sunny  lands. 


100  WALLS  OF  CORN  AND  OTHER  POEMS. 

The  summer  waned:  the  nights  grew  chill: 
With  stealthy  lingers  Autumn  came, 

And  clad  the  copse  and  wooded  hill 
In  gorgeous  garments,  splashed  with  flame. 

At  eve,  returning  homeward  late, 
Just  as  the  frosty  twilight  fell, 

I  found  young  Laura  at  the  gate, 
Counting  the  tolling  of  the  bell. 

The  last  stroke  fell.    Against  her  heart 
She  passed  her  hand.  '"Tis  he!''  she  said; 

No  other  sign  of  present  smart. 
Would  she  had  moaned,  or  wept,  or  prayed ! 


A  grave  upon  a  lone  hill-side, 

Where  Autumn  leaves  lay  sere  and  dead. 
Here  oft,  at  the  cold  even-tide, 

Came  silent  Laura,  bride  unwed. 

One  morn  they  found  her,  still  and  cold, 
With  white  lips  pressed  against  the  stone, 

While  in  her  mantle's  crease  and  fold, 
And  on  her  hair,  the  hoar-frost  shone. 

United.    Round  their  lowly  bed 
The  fierce  winds  howl  in  wild  delight. 

Not  thus,  not  thus  they  thought  to  wed; 
Not  so  they  planned,  that  summer-night. 


WALLS  OF  CORN  AND  OTHER  POEMS. 


The  Whip-po-wil. 

When  softly  over  field  and  town. 
And  over  yonder  wood-crowned  hill. 

The  twilight  drops  its  curtain  down, 
'Tis  then  we  hear  the  whip-po-wil. 

From  the  near  shadows  sounds  a  call, 
Clear  in  its  accents,  loud  and  shrill, 

And  from  the  orchard's  willow  wall 
Comes  the  faint  answer,  "  Whip-po-wil." 

The  night  creeps  on;  the  summer  morn 
Whitens  the  roof  and  lights  the  sill; 

And  still  the  bird  repeats  his  tune, 
His  one  refrain  of  "  Whip-po-wil." 

We  hear  him  not  at  morn  or  noon: 
Where  hides  he  then  so  dumb  and  still:* 

Where  lurks  he.  waiting  for  the  moon? 
Who  ever  saw  a  whip-po-wil? 

Where  plies  his  mate  her  household  care? 

In  what  veiled  nook,  secure  from  ill, 
Builds  she  the  tiny  cradle,  where 

Nestles  the  baby  whip-po-wil? 

I  cannot  tell,  yet  prize  the  more 
The  unseen  bird,  whose  wild  notes  thrill 

The  evening  gloom  about  my  door, — 
Still  sweetly  calling,  "  Whip-po-wil." 

Asleep  through  all  the  strong  daylight, 
While  other  birds  so  gayly  trill; 

Waking  to  cheer  the  lonely  night,— 
We  love  thee  well,  O  whip-po-wil! 


102  WALLS  OF  CORN  AND  OTHER  POEMS. 


Deep  Waters. 

Laughing  and  shouting  its  rocks  among-, 

The  brook  threads  the  upland  lea: 
Hut,  for  all  its  song  so  loudly  sung, 
And  the  small  uproar  of  its  babbling  tongue, 
'Tis  a  shallow  thing  in  its  glee. 

Solemn  and  still  doth  the  river  go, 

As  it  winds  through  its  vale  of  rest: 
Calm  is  its  mien  and  its  tide  is  slow. 
Smooth  is  its  face  and  its  voice  is  low — 
Yet  fleets  may  ride  on  its  breast. 

Oh!  the  river  is  great  in  its  silent  might, 

As  it  rolleth  eternally: 
But,  with  all  its  calm,  so  still,  so  bright, 
In  a  passionate  longing  day  and  night, 

It  stretches  its  hands  to  the  sea. 

The  brook  and  the  river  are  each  alike; 

And  the  one  all  men  may  know; 
For  its  fretful  current  with  noises  rife,  • 
And  its  grief  and  joy,  and  its  petty  strife, 

Are  seen  in  its  shallow  flow. 

The  other  so  peaceful  seems, 

So  still;  and  we  fancy  a  soul  at  rest: 
But,  little  we  know  what  strength  of  will, 
What  mighty  pulses  that  thro!)  and  thrill, 
Are  hid  in  the  silent  breast. 

A  clear,  cool  eye,  with  a  changeless  glow, 

The  clasp  of  a  steady  palm, 
May  cover  the  tide  that  sweeps  below, 
In  a  strong  and  resistless  undertow, 

Yet  we  say,  "how  cool  and  calm!" 


Here  on  this  ragged  bluff  I  stand  alone, 
And  look  OUL  on  the  waters. 


WALLS  OF  CORN  AND  OTHER  POEMS. 


The  Sod   House  on  the  Prairie. 

A  low  sod  house,  a  broad  green  prairie, 
And  stately  ranks  of  bannered  corn;— 

'Twas  there  I  took  my  dark-eyed  Mary, 
And  there  our  darling  boy  was  born. 

The  walls  were  low,  the  place  was  homely, 
But  Mary  sang  from  rnorn  till  night. 

The  place  beneath  her  touch  grew  comely; 
Her  cheerful  presence  made  it  bright. 

Oh.  life  was  sweet  beyond  all  measure! 

No  hour  was  dull,  no  day  was  long; 
Each  task  was  easy,  toil  was  pleasure, 

For  love  and  hope  were  fresh  and  strong. 

How  oft  we  sat  at  eve,  foretelling 
The  glories  of  that  wide,  new  land! 

And  gayly  planned  our  future  dwelling — 
For  low  sod  house,  a  mansion  grand. 

Alas!  we  little  know  how  fleeting 
The  joy  that  falls  to  human  lot. 

While  unseen  hands  were  dirges  beating, 
We  smiled  secure  and  heard  them  not. 

One  day  Death  came  and  took  my  Mary; 

Another,  and  the  baby  died. 
And  near  the  sod  house  on  the  prairie 

I  laid  my  darlings,  side  by  side. 

I  could  not  stay.  My  heart  was  weary, 
And  life  a  load  too  hard  to  bear. 

That  low  sod  house  was  dreary,  dreary, 
For  love  and  hope  lay  buried  there. 


WALLS  OF  CORN  AND  OTHER  POEMS. 


Will  He  Come  To-Xiglit? 

Will  he  come  to-night?    There  is  rain  in  the  sky: 
Yonder  great  clouds  like  mountains  lie; 
And  a  leaden  fold  hangs  over  the  town, 
Coming  slowly  up  where  the  sun  went  down. 

About  its  edges  the  lightnings  play 

In  sheeted  flashes,  and  far  away 

The  thunder  utters  its  sullen  roar 

In  a  tone  of  menanee— I'll  shut  the  door. 

The  swell  of  the  wind  in  the  forest  trees 
Sounds  like  the  surging  of  distant  seas. 
The  lightning,  the  thunder,  the  surging  roar, 
And  the  dark'ning  sky— I'll  watch  no  more. 

He  will  not  come,  for  the  way  is  long; 
Yet  the  kettle  is  singing  its  cheery  song, 
And  the  firelight  dances,  red  and  bright — 
And  the  meal  is  spread— but  what  a  night! 

Were  you  here,  Love,  we  should  like  the  storm— 
We  two,  by  the  firelight,  bright  and  warm — 
But  I'm  lonesome,  sad.    The  flash  and  roar 
Startle  me,  frighten  me,  more  and  more. 

What  a  terrible  wind.     It  has  burst  the  door. 
Full  into  the  room  the  waters  pour. 
I  can  only  shut  it  with  might  and  main — 
So  strong  is  the  push  of  the  gusty  rain. 

The  thunder  is  distant,  now,  but  the  rain 
Beats  steadily  yet  on  the  window  pane. 
It  falls  from  the  eves  on  the  cold  door-stone 
With  its  drip,  and  drip— what  a  lonesome  tone. 


Watching  the  butterflies,  chasing  the  bees, 
Wading  in  clover  up  to  her  knees. 


WALLS  OF  CORN  AND  OTHER  POEMS. 


It  is  over  at  last.    I  will  go  to  bed; 

Hut  there  is  something  missing  beneath  my  head. 

What  loving  simpletons  girls  must  be 

To  go  and  get  married,  and  be— like  me. 


The  First  Breath  of  Spring. 

The  drifts  lie  deep,  the  ice  bound  stream 
Wrestles  in  vain  with  its  wedded  chain: 

The  lake  still  sleeps,  still  dreams  its  dream, 
Under  its  bright,  cold  counterpane. 

The  woods  are  mute,  save  the  mournful  tune 
Sung  by  the  wind  in  last  year's  leaves. 

Still  that  cracked  and  dolorous  tune 
Sobs  and  shudders  and  frets  and  grieves. 

Winter  is  king: — yet,  soft  and  sweet, 

Comes  a  whisper,  a  fair,  faint  tone 
Of  distant  music  in  muffled  beat, 

Only  a  breath,  yet  it  shakes  his  throne! 

Only  a  breath!  and  so  faint  and  low, 
That  I  lean  to  listen,  and  bare  my  head — 

Lean  to  listen— till  over  the  snow 
Comes  the  sound  of  a  velvet  tread. 

Who  breathes  so  low?  who  comes  apace. 

Treading  softly,  with  feet  unseen, 
With  muffled  form,  and  with  covered  face? 

It  is  Spring  that  comes.— Long  live  the  Queen! 

Welcome!  all  hail  to  the  reign  so  near! 

Thine  hour  is  not  yet  come,  we  know; 
We  shall  wait  through  days  that  are  gray  and  drear, 

Through  howling  tempest  and  driving  snow. 


106  WALLS  OF  CORN  AND  OTHER  POEMS. 

But  we  well  can  wait:  the  fields,  the  lake. 

Silent  lie,  like  a  realm  of  death:    • 
Yet  thou  art  near  and  the  dead  shall  wake, 

We  have  heard  thy  voice,  we  have  felt  thy  breath: 

Haste!  oh  haste!    In  this  hour  of  calm 
We  have  heard  thee,  but  oh  to  feel  thy  kiss! 

Oh  for  the  touch  of  thy  lips  of  balm! 
And  oh!  to  bs  drunk  with  thy  draughts 


The  Wayside  Trough, 

On  the  velvet  bem  of  grasses  green 
That  borders  the  edge  of  the  dusty  way, 

Under  a  maple's  glossy  screen, 
Is  a  rough  hewn  trough,  all  battered  and  gray. 

All  through  the  summer,  wet  or  dry, 
With  dripping  crystal  the  brim  o'erflows, 

Pure  as  the  rain  that  falls  from  the  sky, 
Free  as  the  air  that  comes  and  goes. 

Into  the  trough  falls  a  tiny  stream- 
Steadily  falls,  both  day  and  night — 

In  the  noontide's  glow,  in  the  moon's  pale  beam. 
Sparkling  always— a  thread  of  light. 

This  battered  trough  and  this  tiny  stream 
Are  known  for  many  and  many  a  mile. 

Tis  here  that  the  wagoner  rests  his  team; 
For  this  he  waits— it  is  worth  his  while. 

Tis  here  that  the  footman,  faint  and  sore, 
Lured  by  the  streamlet's  silver  tone, 

Rests  till  the  midday  heats  are  o'er, 
Then  cheered,  refreshed,  presses  bravely  on. 


WALLS  OF  CORN  AND  OTHER  POEMS.  107 

And  children,  loitering  borne  from  school, 
With  hot,  flushed  faces,  and  bare,  brown  feet, 

Dip  their  brows  in  the  waters  cool, 
With  ringing  shouts  and  with  laughter  sweet. 

Whence  does  it  come— this  stream  so  bright, 
That  falls  in  the  trough  by  the  dusty  way-- 

This  sparkling,  musical  thread  of  light, 
That  tinkles  and  sings,  by  night  and  day? 

Rack  in  the  tields,  at  a  meadow's  edge, 

Under  a  bank,  by  trees  o'erhung, 
'Mid  sweet-flag  clumps  and  grassy  sedge, 

Is  born  the  stream  with  the  silver  tongue. 

A  deep,  clear  spring,  with  a  household  name — 
Through  fiercest  drouth  it  still  o'erflows, 

As  pure  and  as  cold  as  if  it  came 
From  rifted  bosoms  of  melting  snow. 

'Twas  a  dear  old  man  (bless  his  memory! 

It  should  live  forever,  fresh  and  sweet!) 
Who  hewed  the  trough  from  a  linden  tree, 

And  set  it  down  by  the  dusty  street. 

He  caught  and  harnessed  the  tiny  stream; 

It  filled  the  trough  and  fills  it  yet. 
In  the  old  man's  heart  was  a  simple  dream 

Of  blessing  his  kind — but  men  forget. 

lie  sleeps  on  the  hillside,  peacefully, 
Whether  zephyrs  sigh  or  storm  winds  blow — 

The  hands  that  hollowed  the  linden  tree 
Were  mutely  folded,  oh!  long  ago! 

Still  weary  wayfarers  stoop  to  drink, 
Where  tinkles  the  stream  like  a  silver  bell. 

Of  the  old,  kind  man  few  ever  think; 
But  I  know  he  would  say — "  It  is  just  as  well." 


10x  WALLS  OF  CORN  AND  OTHER  POEMS. 


The  Talking  Fiend. 

Sad  is  his  fate,  we  may  well  suppose. 

To  whose  pillow  at  dead  of  night, 
Comes  a  ghost  in  diaphanous  clothes, 

And  stands  there,  still  and  white. 

It  wouldn't  be  pleasant  for  you  or  me— 
The  ghost  that  in  silence  stalks;— 

But  worse  than  a  silent  ghost  can  be, 
Is  the  fiend  who  always  talks. 

As  to  spiteful  spirits,  black  or  gray, 
If  you  keep  your  conscience  clear, 

And  a  horseshoe  over  the  door,  they  say, 
Not  one  will  venture  near. 

But  there's  nothing  yet,  as  I've  heard  tell, 

That  can  lay  this  thing  of  evil. 
Not  saintly  purity,  charm,  or  spell, 

Can  banish  the  talking  devil. 

There  are  bolts  and  bars  for  midnight  crime. 
Which  in  darkness  prowls  about; 

But  the  thief  who  filches  your  precious  time. 
There's  nothing  to  keep  him  out. 

Of  all  life's  miseries  dread  and  dire, 

Have  sorrowful  poets  sung; 
But  worse  than  famine,  or  flood,  or  fire, 

Is  the  fiend  with  the  ceaseless  tongue. 

You  know  him;  he  calls  himself  your  friend-; 

But  your  deadliest  enemy. 
Who  presses  hate  to  the  bitter  end, 

Is  more  of  a  friend  than  he. 


WALLS  OF  CORN  AND  OTHER  POEMS.  109 

Does  lie  dwell  with  you?    At  your  table  sit? 

Then  pack  up  your  traps  and  fly! 
Or  be  talked  to  death— and  I've  heard  that  "it 

Is  a  terrible  death  to  die." 

Should  the  fiend  read  this,  he'll  not  look  grim, 

But  a  smile  shall  his  visage  mellow. 
He'll  never  dream  it  is  meant  for  him, 

But  he'll  think  of  some  other  fellow. 


Woman's  Work. 

Let  her  not  lift  a  feeble  voice  and  cry, 

"What  is  my  work?"  and  fret  at  bars  and  bands, 
While  all  about  her  life's  plain  duties  lie, 

Waiting  undone  beneath  her  idle  hands. 
The  noblest  life  oft  hath,  for  warp  and  woof, 

Small,  steady-running  threads  of  daily  care; 
Where  patient  love,  beneath  some  lowly  roof, 

Its  poem  sweet  is  weaving  unaware, 

And  soft  and  rich  and  rare  the  web  shall  be. 

O  wife,  and  mother,  tender  brave  and  true, 
Rejoice,  be  glad!  and  bend  a  thankful  knee 

To  God,  who  giveth  thee  thy  work  to  do. 


Grandmother. 

Busy  and  quiet,  and  sweet  and  wise, 

With  a  long  life's  thought  in  her  gentle  eyes— 

The  hoarding  of  many  a  year- 
Nearer  drawing,  from  sun  to  sun, 
To  the  peaceful  goal  of  a  race  well  run, 
Waiting  her  record  of  work  well  done 

In  the  hearts  that  hold  her  dear. 


110  \VALLS  OF  CORN  AND  OTHER  POEMS. 

Grandmother's  locks,  all  silver}'  white, 
Seem  to  my  fancy  like  bands  of  light, 

Crowning  her  sweet  pale  face. 
Grandmother's  voice  is  tender  and  low; 
And  the  fall  of  her  footsteps  soft  and  slow, 
As  hither  and  yonder,and  to  and  fro, 

She  glides  with  a  saintly  grace. 

Grandmother's  mission,  for  every  day, 
Is  to  do  the  duty  that  comes  her  way. 

Whatever  that  duty  may  be. 
To  think  of  others,  her  self  forgot, 
To  dry  sad  tears  when  her  own  are  wet, 
Is  Grandmother's  plan— and  the  best  one  yet, — 

"Twere  a  good  one  for  you  and  me. 

She  has  her  griefs,  though  she  hides  them  well. 
Her  heart  still  throbs  when  a  tolling  bell 

Utters  its  mournful  tone. 
For  she  thinks  of  a  knell  rung  long  ago, 
Of  a  far  off  grave  underneath  the  snow, 
And  a  silent  sleeper  on  pillow  low, 

Whose  lips  once  pressed  her  own. 

Thirty  years — 'tis  a  lonely  while! 

Yet  Grandmother's  face  wears  a  peaceful  smile 

As  she  sits  in  the  sunset  glow. 
She  is  busy  still,  as  evening  light 
Falls  on  her  hair,  so  silvery  white: 
And  she  softly  speaks  of  the  coming  night- 
She  is  biding  her  time  to  go. 


Indian  Summer. 

Again  the  leaves  come  fluttering  down, 

Slowly,  silently,  one  by  one,— 
Scarlet,  and  crimson,  and  gold,  and  brown, — 

Willing  to  fall,  for  their  work  is  done, 


WALLS  OF  CORN  AND  OTHER  POEMS. 


And  once  again  comes  the  dreamy  haze, 
Draping  the  hills  with  its  filmy  blue, 

And  veiling  the  sun,  whose  tender  rays, 
With  mellowed  light  come  shimmering  through. 

Softly  it  rests  on  the  sleeping  lake — 
This  fllmy  veil — and  the  distant  shore, 

Fringed  with  tangles  of  brush  and  brake, 
Shows  a  dim  blue  line  and  nothing  more. 

The  winds  are  asleep,  save  now  and  then 
Some  wandering  breeze  comes  stealing  by, 

Softly  rises,  then  sinks  again, 
And  dies  away  like  an  infant's  sigh. 

You  feel  the  spell  of  those  dreamy  days 
I  know— for  your  soul  is  in  tune  with  mine. 

You  love  the  stillness,  the  tender  haze; 
I  know— for  your  thoughts  with  my  own  entwine. 

But  this  dreamy  calm,  this  solemn  hush, 
The  sleeping  winds,  and  the  mellow  glow, 

Only  foretell  the  tempest's  rush, 
The  icy  blast,  and  whirling  snow. 

We —  you  and  I— must  bow  to  the  frost, 
When  our  locks  are  white  with  hoary  kiss; 

Our  last  rose  scattered,  its  petals  lost, 
May  our  Indian  summer  be  calm — like  this. 


WALLS  OF  CORN  AND  OTHER  POEMS. 


Love. 

Some  men  there  are,  called  holy,  who  ret  JIT 

To  dreary  deserts  from  the  world  away, 

Who  scourge  the  flesh,  and  meditate  and  pray. 

And  for  each  earthly  thought  do  penance  dire 

Until  all  human  sympathies  expire: 

Who  sacrifice  God's  precious  gifts  and  say 

That  from  the  bitter  ashes,  dead  and  gray. 

Shall  spring  the  glowing  flames  of  sacred  tire. 

But  cold  the  ashes  are,  no  flames  arise. 

When  hearts  are  dead  no  fervent  pulse  can  beat, 

No  warm  blood  flow.    Oh,  fools  are  they,  and  blind, 

Who,  scorning  earth,  think  thus  to  scale  the  skies! 

Such  scorn  (would  they  could  know!)  but  weights  the  feet. 

He  loves  God  best  who  best  doth  love  his  kind. 


High  and  Low. 

Down  in  the  valley,  a  peaceful  scene — 
Streamlets  winding  through  meadows  green, 
Rippling,  smiling,  their  banks  between. 

Up  on  the  heights,  the  torrents  flash. 
Rush  and  tumble,  and  roar  and  dash. 
Seaming  the  soil  with  many  a  gash. 

Down  in  the  valley,  the  summer  rain 
Gently  falls  on  the  growing  grain. 
Softly  taps  at  the  window-pane. 

Up  on  the  heights,  the  tempests  beat . 

Hurling  volleys  of  pelting  sleet, 

When  winds  and  clouds  like  armies  meet. 


WALLS  OF  CORN  AND  OTHER  POEMS.  113 

Down  in  the  valley,  through  growing  corn, 
The  warm  wind  steals,  and  the  breeze  of  morn, 
Kisses  the  buds,  and  the  flowers  are  born. 

Up  on  the  heights,  the  wind  blows  chill, 
Smiting  the  heart  with  its  icy  thrill, 
Shrieking  at  midnight,  sharp  and  shrill. 

Down  in  the  valley,  a  level  street, 
Shaded  by  trees  whose  branches  meet, 
Trodden  lightly  by  tripping  feet. 

Up  to  the  heights,  the  way  is  steep, 
The  stones  are  sharp,  the  chasms  deep, 
And  oft  the  pilgrims  pause  to  weep. 

Down  in  the  valley,  a  vine-wreathed  cot, 
A  happy  household  where  strife  is  not, 
Each  content  in  a  simple  lot. 

Up  on  the  heights,  one  dwells  apart, 
A  mark  for  many  an  envious  dart, 
Lofty,  but  lonely,  and  starved  in  heart. 

Oh,  would  there  were  less  of  strife  to  gain, 
With  bleeding  feet,  with  tug  and  strain, 
Far,  rocky  heights,  that  are  heights  of  pain. 

The  brightest  wreaths  of  fame  may  rest 
On  throbbing  brows,  and  royal  vest 
Oft  has  covered  an  aching  breast. 


114  WALLS  OF  CORN  AND  OTHER  POKMi-v 


A  Wayside  Tree. 

I  passed  to-day  through  a  foiv-t 

In  somberest  sombre  drest; 
Furled  were  the  blood-red  banners, 

Quenched  was  each  flaming  crest. 

The  wind  swept  through  the  branches: 
The  clouds  hung  low  and  gray, 

Bearing  storms  in  their  bosoms. 
Stealing  the  sun  away. 

The  roar  far  back  in  the  forest. 

The  crackling  above  my  head, 
As  the  crisp  leaves  shook  and  quivered, 

Filled  me  with  nameless  dread. 

Like  the  leaves,  I  shook  and  shivered 
As  the  cold  wind  colder  blew, 

And  the  tread  of  advancing  tempests 
Sounded  the  deep  woods  through. 

Was  there  nothing  left  of  the  summery 
Naught  of  the  autumn  show;' 

Nothing  bright  for  the  winter 
To  fold  in  its  sheets  of  snow? 

Me  hold!  by  the  dreary  roadside, 

Towering  fair  and  green 
In  the  midst  of  its  sombre  sisters, 

A  single  oak  is  seen. 

Touched  with  spatters  of  crimson, 

Bordered  with  flery  bands, 
Across  its  resplendent  garments 

The  sun  and  the  frost  clasp  hands. 


WALLS  OF  CORN  AND  OTHER  POEMS.  115 

I  look  at  the  tree  in  wonder! 

It  seems  like  some  ancient  sage, 
Wearing  his  youthful  freshness 

Along  with  the  frosts  of  age. 

Oh!  the  life  must  be  pure  and  noble 

That  can  keep,  as  the  seasons  go, 
Its  June  and  its  rich  October 

Till  falleth  the  winter  snow! 


A  Song  of  Peace. 

Sing  me  a  song  to-night, 

Not  sad,  nor  yet  keyed  to  mirth; 
But  a  household  lay,  in  a  soothing  voice, 

As  the  cricket  sings  on  the  hearth. 

No  loud  high-soaring  strains, 
When  body  and  brain  are  spent; 

But  I  long  to  listen,  with  half-shut  lids, 
To  a  song  of  sweet  content. 

Let  the  notes  drop  from  your  lips 
Like  summer  rain  from  the  eaves, 

Or  the  dreamy  tinkle  of  far-off  bells 
That  comes  through  whispering  leaves. 

Let  me  hold  your  hand  a  while — 

Your  hand  so  firm  and  flne; 
Its  soft,  warm  clasp  is  a  touch  of  peace, 

And  its  pulses  shall  quiet  mine. 

Sing  on,  so  soft  and  low; 

Dispelled  by  the  soothing  strain, 
Gone  the  heat  from  my  throbbing  brow, 

And  the  ache  from  heart  and  brain. 


IK,  WALLS  OF  CORN  AND  OTHER  POEMS. 

Sing  on;  your  breath  at  my  cheek, 

Your  hands  still  clasping  mine: 
Your  voice  and  your  touch,  my  household  bird. 

Are  sweeter  and  better  than  mine. 


A  Kansas  Prairie  and   Its  People. 

How  grandly  vast  the  prairie  seems. 

Beneath  the  pale  winter's  glow— 
A  wide,  white  world,  in  death-like  sleep, 

under  its  shroud  of  snow. 

Yet  there  are  signs  of  life:  the  lanes 

Are  trod  by  heavy  teams; 
A  horseman,  on  the  yon  distant  swell, 

A  moving  atom  seems. 

The  wide,  white  lands  that  stretch  away 

Are  dotted  everywhere 
With  orchard  clumps,  and  farmers'  hoim- 

Are  snugly  nestled  there. 

The  people  of  this  great  new  world 
Have  come  from  every  quarter: 

Some  faced  each  other  long  ago, 
On  red  fields  bathed  in  slaughter. 

In  frosty  dawns  of  winter  morns, 
The  white  smoke  curls  away 

From  homes  of  men  who  wore  the  blue, 
And  men  who  wore  the  gray. 

Here,  brothers  all;  they  hang  their  gifts 
On  the  same  Christmas  tree; 

Our  kindly  neighbors,  cordial  friemK 
Are  as  brothers  ought  to  be. 


WALLS  OF  CORN  AND  OTHER  POEMS. 


And  crowds  of  children,  Kansas  born,— 
Our  young  state's  hope  and  pride,— 

With  rosy  cheeks  and  sparkling  eyes, 
Learn  lessons  side  by  side. 

Xaught  reck  they  of  the  battle  field, 
Of  sad,  dark  years  of  slaughter; 

The  Northmen's  son  some  day  shall  wear 
The  Southron's  gentle  daughter. 


Acceptance. 

That  man  is  wisest  who  accepteth  his  lot 
Yet  mends  it  where  lie-can— glad  if  there  grows 

Some  lowly  flower  beside  his  lonely  cot, 

E'en  while  he  plants  and  tends  his  Alpine  rose. 

Some  good  comes  to  us  all.     No  poverty 
Hut  has  some  precious  gift  laid  at  its  door. 

We  scorn  it,  call  it  small,  what  fools  are  we, 
To  spurn  the  less  because  it  is  not  more! 

There  are  some  thirsty  souls,  all  sick  and  faint 
With  longing  for  the  cup  that  is  denied. 

Would  they  but  stoop  and  drink,  without  complaint, 
From  the  near  stream,  and  so  be  satisfied. 

There  are  some  hungry  hearts  that  well  nigh  break 
With  the  dull  soreness  of  mere  emptiness. 

To  fill  the  void  and  sooth  the  weary  ache 

Let  them  but  strive  some  other  hearts  to  bless. 

There  are  some  idle  hands  that  reach  afar 
For  wilder  mission,  some  great  work  of  fame. 

Would  they  but  grapple  life's  daily  waf, 
Reward  awaits  them,  nobler  than  a  name. 


WALLS  OF  CORN  AND  OTHER  POEMS. 


()li.  thirsty  souls!    Oh,  hungry  hearts  and  hands, 
Weary  with  idleness!    Take  what  you  may 

Of  proffered  good;  accept  life  as  it  stands, 
And  make  the  most  of  its  swift,  fleeting  day. 


A  Lesson  for  the  New  Year. 

The  last  night  of  the  year,  I  sat  alone 

Beside  the  dying  fire.    The  whole  house  slept. 

Naught  stirred  the  silence,  save  the  wind's  low  moan. 
As  sadly  through  the  naked  streets  it  crept, 

The  fall  of  embers  and  the  clock's  low  beat, 

That  mark  the  passing  years  with  tiring  feet. 

I  am  weary;  and  the  coming  year 

Seemed  but  an  added  load  that  pressed  me  son-. 
The  morrow  would  bring  friends,  and  I  should  hear 

The  tread  of  many  feet  upon  the  floor. 
I  longed  for  quiet;  I  was  vexed  with  care; 
Just  then  my  burden  seemed  too  great  to  bear. 

I  thought  of  my  unopened  book,  my  pen, 

Lying  long  idle,  rusting  in  its  place. 
Could  I  but  take  them  to  some  lonely  glen 

Where  toil  were  not,  nor  any  human  face! 
li'Twere  joy,"  cried  I,  so  fretful  was  my  mood 
"To  dwell  one  year  in  utter  solitude." 

••Have  then  thy  wish!"  Was  uttered  sad  and  low; 

I  turned,  and  one  stood  by  me,  fair  and  tall, 
And  from  his  countenance  with  light  aglow, 

A  look  of  pitying  grief  on  me  did  fall. 
"Have  then  thy  wish!"  He  stooped  and  touched  mine  eyes' 
And  I  stotxl  dumb,  overwhelmed  with  strange  surprise. 

The  silent  room  had  vanished  and  the  wood, 

Peopled  with  birds,  that  tilled  its  aisles  with  song 


WALLS  OF  CORN*  AND  OTHER  POKMS. 


Compassed  me  round  with  sweet  green  solitude; 

A  clear  stream  trailed  its  silvery  thread  along; 
And  close  beside  it  stood  a  rustic  cot. 
Piled  high  with  volumes,  and  here  toil  was  not. 

Fruits  for  my  food  fell  lightly  at  my  feet; 

I  was  alone;  through  all  that  lovely  place 
I  knew  that  I  might  wander,  and  not  meet, 

In  hill  or  hollow,  any  human  face. 
Within  my  books,  all  wit  and  wisdom  blent. 
I  had  my  wish:  was  I  therewith  content? 

Nay,  verily.    A  sharp  grief  pierced  me  through, 
My  spirit  sank,  oppressed  with  midnight  gloom, 

While  trees  hung  o'er  me  wet  with  heaven's  dew. 
L  felt  as  one  walled  up  within  a  tomb. 

I  sought  my  books:  locked  were  their  stores  from  me; 

The  hot  tears  dimmed  my  sight.  1  could  not  see. 

I  tried  my  pen— in  vain.     No  words  would  come. 

Thought  was  an  arid  desert,  wide  and  gray. 
From  which  no  streams  would  flow.    My  soul  wa>  dumb 

With  utter  loneliness;  but  could  I  pray? 
I  cast  me  on  the  fragrant,  dewy  sod, 
My  face  pressed  in  the  grass— and  cried  to  God. 

"Oh!    Give  me  back,"  I  prayed,  "The dear  days  gone  — 
The  toilsome  days,  so  full  of  crowded  care — 

The  hands  I  clasped,  the  lips  that  pressed  my  own. 
For  these,  for  these,  could  I  all  burdens  bear!" 

I  started,  for  a  rustling  robe  trailed  near: 

And  "Have  again  thy  wish!"  fell  on  my  ear. 

Again  I  felt  soft,  gentle  fingers  press 

Mine  eyelids  down;  and  lo!    The  dear  old  room, 
The  smiling  lamp  light  home's  blessed  homliness! 

The  lonely  wood  was  gone,  its  grief,  its  gloom: 
And  close  within  my  call  my  dear  ones  slept. 
For  very  joy  I  bowed  my  head  and  wept. 


]2i>  WALLS  OF  CORX  AND  OTHER  POEMS. 

Tlie  fire  was  dead,  the  moon  shone  on  the  snow, 
The  wailing  wintry  wind  blew  bitter  sold, 

And  yet  I  laid  me  down  with  heart  aglow, 

For  all  life's  leaden  care  seemed  turned  to  gold. 

I  slept  the  sleep  of  peace:  I  rose  at  morn, 

Strong  in  the  glad  Xew  Year — as  one  new  born. 


Bubbles. 

I  saw  an  urchin  with  a  pipe  of  clay 

Held  to  his  rosy  lips;  a  rippling  brook 
Kissed  his  bare  feet,  then,  singing,  sped  away. 

His  cheek  was  dimpled,  mirth  wa-*  in  his  look. 

The  child  was  blowing  bubbles.  One  by  one 
The  tiny  globes  of  rainbow,  frail  and  fair, 

Sailed  upward,  glittered  in  the  morning  sun, 
Trembled  and  swung  upon  the  summer  air. 

Then  one  by  one  I  saw  them  burst.  Some  fell 
Tpon  the  stream  that  gurgled  swiftly  past. 

Broke,  and  were  gone  forever.  Balanced  well, 
Some  stayed  a  moment,  but  all  burst  at  last. 

I  saw    'iem  vanish,  and  I  sadly  thought, 
With  tear-wet  eyelid  and  with  quivering  lip, 

That  such  was  history— thus  frailly  wrought, 
Men's  lives  are  bubbles,  Fortune  blows  the  pipe. 

A  drop,  a  breath— no  more— is  place  and  power. 

The  crowd  that  cries  to-day,  "  Long  live  the  King  I*' 
To-morrow  spurns  its  creature  of  an  hour, 

And  lays  him  low— a  scorned  and  hated  thing. 

1  see  how  men  go  up  and  men  go  down; 

I  see  the  high  and  noble  sink  to  shame;  • 

I  see  the  high  exile's  ban  succeed  the  crown: 

I  see  vile  Slander  dog  the  steps  of  Fame. 


WALLS  OF  CORN  AND  OTHER  POEMS.  121 

So  must  it  be;  the  brightest  bubbles  burst; 

To  grasp  them  is  to  clutch  at  empty  air. 
Is  naught,  then,  certain?  is  all  good  accurst? 

Is  this  life  all?    Proclaim  it,  ye  who  dare! 

God's  Truth  abides.     We  turn  and  veer  about; 
We  clasp  our  idols,  and  they  fall  to  dust: 

Our  faith  is  weak— we  plunge  in  seas  of  doubt- 
Yet  there  is  still  the  Rock;  and  God  is  just. 


Confidence, 

Is  it  better  never  to  hope,  than  to  hope  in  vain? 
Is  it  better  never  to  strive,  lest  we  never  attain? 
Js  it  better  to  cling  to  the  shore  and  leave  untried 
Life's  wide,  deep  sea,  for  dread  of  its  storm  and  tide? 

Who  ventures  naught,  he  surely  shall  never  win: 
He  naught  shall  finish,  who  never  doth  aught  begin; 
.The  sun  may  shine  and  the  heavens  may  shed  its  rain, 
But  only  the  sower  may  harvest  his  golden  grain. 

To-morrow,  we  know,  is  dark  with  its  misty  veil: 
The  light  on  the  path  to-day  is  but  dim  and  pale; 
Blindly  we  grope  our  way— but  'tis  better  so — 
What  God  hath  hidden  'tis  better  we  should  not -know. 

Xobler  and  braver  is  he  who  stakes  his  all, 
And  takes  his  loss  or  gain  as  the  chances  may  fall, 
Than  he  who  folds  his  hands  and  idly  waits, 
Till  the  shadows  gather  darkly  about  his  gates. 

Shall  we  turn  our  ear  away  from  a  sweet  refrain, 
Lest  the  pleasant  song  may  turn  to  a  diqje  of  pain? 
Shall  we  close  our  eyes  to  the  ray  in  the  midnight  gloom, 
Lest  it  prove  a  lure  that  leads  to  the  door  of  a  tomb? 


WALLS  OF  CORN  AND  OTHER  POEMS. 


Is  it  better  never  to  love,  lest  love  mistake;' 
The  passionate  heart  may  quiver  and  ache  and  break  — 
Yet  give  us  the  warm,  rich  wine,  though  well  we  kn<>\v 
That  dregs  as  bitter  as  death  may  lie  below. 

We  sigh  for  the  joys  that  were  coming,  and  never  came: 
We  sit  in  the  dark  and  weep,  with  our  hearts  aflame: 
We  feel  the  crush  and  grind  of  the  silent  mill  — 
Feel  the  crush  and  grind,  while  our  lips  are  still. 

What,  then!  shall  we  spurn  our  life  as  a  broken  thing;' 
Shall  we  fling  a  curse  in  the  face  of  Heaven's  King? 
Happy  is  he  who  keepeth  his  trust  through  all: 
He  may  shrink  and  shiver,  and  falter,  but  shall  not  fall. 


November  Rain. 

November  rain!  November  rain! 
Fitfully  beating  the  window  pane: 
Creeping  in  pools  across  the  street: 
Clinging  in  slush  to  dainty  feet; 
Shrouding  in  black  the  sun  at  noon; 
Wrapping  a  pall  about  the  moon. 

Out  in  the  darkness,  sobbing,  sighing. 
Yonder,  where  the  dead  are  lying, 
Over  mounds  with  headstones  gray. 
And  new  ones  made  but  yesterday- 
Weeps  the  rain  above  the  mould. 
Weeps  the  night-rain,  sad  and  cold. 

The  low  wind  wails— a  voice  of  pain. 
Fit  to  chime  with  the  weeping  rain. 
Dirge-like,  solemn,  it  sinks  and  swell>. 
Till  I  start  and  listen  for  tolling  bells. 
And  let  them  toll—  the  summer  fled. 
Wild  winds  and  rain  bewail  the  dead. 


WALLS  OF  CORN  AND  OTHER  POEMS.  123 

And  yet  not  dead.    A  prophesy 

Over  wintry  wastes  comes  down  to  me, 

Strong,  exultant,  floating  down 

Over  frozen  fields  and  forests  brown, 

Clear  and  sweet  it  peals  and  swells, 

Like  New  Year  chimes  from  midnight  bells. 

It  tells  of  a  heart  with  life  aglow, 
Throbbing  under  the  shrouding  snow, 
Beating,  beating  with  pulses  warm, 
While  roars  above  it  the  gusty  storm. 
Asleep— not  dead— your  grief  is  vain, 
Wild,  wailing  winds,  November  rain. 


Shadows. 

Gray,  cold  and  gray 

Is  the  desolate  wintry  sky. 
As  the  colorless  daylight  fades  away 

And  the  starless  night  draws  nigh, 
I  sit  in  my  darkened  room 

By  the  fire, — it  is  burning  low, 
While  fancy  weaves  in  her  pauseless  loom, 
And  swift  and  silent,  amid  the  gloom. 

Her  shuttle  glides  to  and  fro. 

Sad,  sombre  and  sad 

Is  the  web  that  she  weaves  to-night; 
And  it  wraps  my  soul  as  the  world  is  clad 

In  the  desolate  evening  light. 
Strange  is  this  nameless  sorrow! 

I  weep,  and  I  scarce  know  why 
It  is  the  frown  of  some  dark  to-morow 
That  looms  above  me,  and  I  must  borrow 

Grief  from  by  and  by? 


124  WALLS  OF  CORN  AND  OTHER  POEMS. 

Why,  fancy  why 

Hast  done  so  ill  thy  task? 
Instead  of  a  gloom  like  the  starless  sky, 

Oh,  give  me  the  thing  I  ask. 
It  is  just  as  easy  to  rear 

A  sunny  castle  in  Spain 
As  to  conjure  up  some  faith  or  fear. 
Some  shadowy  grief  that  brings  a  tear 

From  the  ache  of  a  nameless  pain. 


Over  the  Hill. 

We  met  on  the  hillside— we  both  were  young  — 
Where  countless  thousands  have  met  before: 

And  read  together  the  tender  book 
Tliat  youth  in  all  time  cons  o'er  and  o'er. 

How  sweet  the  rhymes!    How  brightly  down 
Shone  on  our  faces  the  golden  morn! 

Far  up  the  path  sweet  roses  clung. 
Soft  blew  the  wind  of  the  Summer's  born. 

Our  path  shall  be  one,"  he  tenderly  said. 

'Tp  the  hill,  down  the  other  side: 
Whether  heavy  or  light  the  burden  be, 

Only  as  one  shall  our  strength  be  tried.'' 

So  we  climbed  together,  young  and  strong— 
For  no  toil  is  heavy  to  Love  and  Youth— 

And  plucked  the  flowers  that  fringed  the  way 
Flowers  that  blossom  for  Trust  and  Truth. 

How  sweet  the  morn!    How  the  hours  sped! 

And  dancing  beside  us  came  little  feet, 
Sweet,  tiny  voices  and  little  hands. 

Clinging  softly,  with  clasping  sweet. 


WALLS  OF  CORN  AND  OTHER  POEMS.  125 


All,  the  tender  sadness  with  which  one  tells 
Of  joys  that  are  dead!    The  morning  gone, 

Rough  grew  the  way  and  hard  the  toil, 
As  the  weary  heat  of  the  noon  came  on. 

And  then  he  was  stricken!  falling  down 
In  the  rugged  way  at  the  hot  noontide; 

And  cold  hands  bore  him  away  from  me, 
Over  the  stream  to  the  other  side. 

O!  weary,  weary,  the  way  I  have  trod! 

The  pattering  feet  beside  my  own 
No  more  keep  time,  and  the  little  hands 

Clasp  mine  no  more.    Old,  and  alone! 

1  have  passed  the  summit  long  ago— 
Slowly,  painfully,  creeping  down! 

Gray  locks  are  straying  my  temples  o'er, 
Where  clustered  brightly  the  curls  of  brown. 

At  the  foot  of  the  hill  rolls  the  sullen  stream; 

I  am  nearing  it  now,  at  the  eventide; 
I  shall  enter  it  when  the  sun  goes  down, 

And  meet  my  love  on  the  other  side! 


The  First  Bird. 

The  south  wind  blows  with  a  hint  of  spring — 

A  prophecy — it  can  be  nothing  more; 
But  there  sits  a  bird  with  wee  brown  wing, 

Up  in  the  hickory,  over  the  door. 

On  a  naked  twig  he  sits  and  sings; 

And  the  March  sun  shines,  and  the  warm  winds  blow 
And  his  frail  perch  trembles  and  sways  and  swings, 

Over  great  masses  of  melting  snow. 


126  WALLS  OF  CORN  AND  OTHER  POEMS. 

Oh!  his  song  is  sweet!  and  almost  I  think 
That  the  spring  is  come;  and  a  conjured  scene 

Of  the  planting  of  corn  and  the  bobolink, 
Dreamily  rises  my  thoughts  between. 

But  heavy  and  deep  lies  the  winter  drift! — 
Ah,  little  bird,  you're  ahead  of  your  time! 

The  wind  will  change  with  a  sudden  shift; 
You  will  shiver  and  chill  in  our  northern  clime. 

You  had  better  have  stayed  in  the  orange  trees 
For  some  days  yet— for  where  will  you  go 

When  the  icy  raindrops  fall  and  free/e? 
And  where  will  you  hid  from  the  sleet  and  snow:* 

Little  bird,  would  you  only  come  to  my  door; 

I  would  take  you  into  my  kitchen  warm- 
Where  strangers  a  welcome  have  found  before— 

And  keep  you  safe  from  the  driving  storm. 

Will  you  come?— But  you  still  believe  in  the  spring; 

You  slight  the  offer  I  make,  and  me. 
You  are  off !  with  your  song  and  your  glancing  wing, 

And  silent  and  bare  is  my  hickory  tree. 


WALLS  OF  CORN"  AND  OTHER  POEMS.  127 


Carrier's  Address. 

I  Wish  you  Happy  New  Year,  kind  friends  and  patrons  all, 
On  you  may  Heaven's  blessing,  like  summer  showers  fall: 
May  your  joys  be  great  and  lasting,  your  sorrows  short  and 
small. 

With   the  New  Year  at  the  threshold,  and  the  Old  Year 

laid  away 

Beneath  the  shrouds  of  winter,  of  the  winter  hoar  and  gray, 
I  come  to  pray  your  patience  while  I  sing  my  simple  lay. 

Did  you  hear  the  bells  a-ringing  in  the  middle  of  the  night? 
Did  you  see,  athwart  the  darkness,   a  radiance  clear  and 

bright, 
As  the  strong  hands  of  the  New  Year  folded  back  the  gates 

of  light? 

It  is  come— the  joyful  morning;  let   all  words  be  words,  of 

cheer; 

Let  sorrow  cease  its  warning  and  forget  to  drop  its  tear: 
Let  the  croaker  cease  his  croaking,  for  once  in  all  the  year. 


There  is  ample  cause  for  triumph,  ample  cause  for  hopeful 

song, 
For  the  Right  has  learned  to  conquer  in  its  conflict  with 

the  Wrong, 
And  Corruption  fears  and  trembles,  for  the  arm  of  Truth  is 

strong. 

You  have  watched  the  tides  of  battle,   from  your  firesides 

bright  and  warm; 
You  have  marked  the  people's  banner,  the  broad  banner  of 

Reform; 
You  have  seen  it  waving  proudly  above  the  surging  storm. 


128  WALLS  OF  CORN  AND  OTHER   POEMS. 

You  have  heard  the  victor's  peans  floating  up  from  distant 

shores, 
From  the  beaches  of  the  May  state,  where  the  wild  Atlantic 

roars, 
And  from  sunny  southern  gardens,   where  the  Mississippi 

pours. 

Where  Ohio  rolls  its  waters,  where  sweeps  the  Tennessee, 
From  the  shores  of  bleak  Ontario,  from  the  vales  of  Genesee, 
You  have  heard  the  thunderous  echoes  of  the  guns  of  victory. 

What  means  the  glad  rejoicing?    What  do  we  hope  to  win 
When  the  Old  is  going  out,  and  the  Xew  is  coming  in? 
For  a  change  that  betters  nothing,  is  a  change  not  worth  a 
pin. 

We  hope  for  better  rulers— men  who  earnestly  desire 
The  good  of  all  the  country,  and  who  honestly  aspire 
To  wash  away  the  traces  of  the  days  of  blood  and  tire. 

The  war  is  long  since  over,  and  it  is  not  brave  we  know, 

To  keep  relentless  foot  upon  the  neck  of  fallen  foe; 

Let  us  bridge  the  "bloody  chasm,''  o'er  the  graves  let  gra>-< •- 

grow: 
Across  old  fields  of  battle  let  the  breath  of  kindness  blow. 

Send  out  the  cleansing  besom,  sweep  away  the  rot  and  rust 
From  the  courts  our  fathers  founded!  Brush  away  the  gath 
ered  dust 

Where  righteous  laws  lie  burried— should  not  judgement 
aye  be  just? 

"Down  witli  the  Carpet  Baggers, '' comes  witli  the  glad 
hurrah: 

"Down  witli  the  Salary  Grabbers,"  and  "down  the  Press 
Gag  Law." 

While  we  snatch  the  good  old  Union  from  destruction's  rav 
ening  jaw. 


WALLS  OF  CORN  AND  OTHER  POEMS.  129 

Ho,  for  the  good  time  coming!— even  now  its  on  the  way. 
When  the  rascals  shall  be  punished,  and  the  patriots  win 

the  day; 
When  only  faithful  servants  shall  receive  the  people's  pay. 


'Tis  true  our  own  Wisconsin  fell  partly  away  from  grace, 
She  was  seized  with  sudden  panic,  and  backward  turned  her 

face, 
But  she  even  now  repenteth,  and  is  mourning  her  disgrace. 

She  was  caught  by  a  wily  lawyer,  who  went  out  to  hunt  for 

votes, 

Courting  the  sturdy  farmer,  praising  his  wheat  and  oats, 
And  damning  the  railroad  system  as  the  rottenest  ship 

that  floats. 

He  filled  his  hair  with  hay  seed,  as  he  grasped  the  farmer's 

hand, 

And  he  sang  this  pious  anthem,  so  lofty  and  so  grand, 
<lf.  want  to  be  a  Granger,  and  with  the  noble  Grangers  stand." 

So  the  Badgers  were  bamboozled,  for  the  trap  was  deftly  set, 
But  now  their  eyes  are  opened  and  they  see  the  silken  net; 
And  from  the  woods  and  prairies  come  the  tones  of  deep 
regret. 


This  is  the  wholesome  Gospel,  clean  work,  unspotted  hands, 
The  public  mill  must  take  square  toll,  honest  taxes  on  our 

lands, 
Which  The  News  is  ever  preaching-  the  platform  where  it 

stands. 

It  tells  the  people  TRUTH,  denounces  Regency  and  Ring, 
For  its  argus  eye  is  watchful,  it  hates  and  scorns  the  thing 
Which  men  miscall  republic,  where  secret  gold  is  king. 


130  WALLS  OF  CORN  AND  OTHER  POEMS. 

While  tlie  years  swing  round  their  circle,  and  the  seasons 

come  and  go 
In  calm,   soft,  summer  mornings,  in  dawns  still  dim  with 

snow, 
It  lays  the  world  before  you,  its  doings,  high  and  low. 

And  as  the  great  world  changes,  keeping  step  with  Time, 
It   marks  the  wheels  of  Progress,  as  they  roll  o'er  every 

clime, 

And  paints  you  shifting  pictures,  now  grotesque,  now  sub 
lime. 

Now    a    strain  for  our  fair  Cream  City— but,  you    know, 

with  too  much  to  say, 

One  often  stammers,  and  falters,  and  utterance  dies  away: 
'Twill  be  thus  if  my  song  goes  halting,  gets  tangled,  loses 

its  way. 

So  fair,  so  fresh,  so  stately,  the  Gem  of  the  wide,  wide  West, 
Do  you  see  how  her  arms  she  stretches,  and  fold  to  her 

throbbing  breast 
The  circling  farms  and  woodlands?    How  she  widens  her 

place  of  rest? 

Lapped  by  the  pale  blue  waters  of  yonder  inland  Sea, 
Spreading  along  its  margin  swiftly  and  steadily: 
Who  shall  look  down  her  future  and  tell  where  her  bounds 
shall  be? 

There's  no  end  of  things  she  does,  with  her  busy  hands  and 

brain: 
She  makes  the  finest  flour,  and  the  mills 'that  grind  the 

grain; 
Organs,  books,  steam  engines,  and  verses  thick  as  rain. 

Under  the  sun  at  noonday,  under  the  midnight  stars, 
With  the  brawny  fist  of  a  Vulcan,  she  forges  her  iron  bars, 
And  her  pavements    throb  and   tremble  under  her  loaded 
cars. 


WALLS  OF  CORN  AND  OTHER  POEMS. 


So  she  eats  the  bread  of  labor,  and  lays  it  up  in  store, 
And  she-always  has  a  slice  for  the  sick  and  suffering  poor: 
In  the  face  of  helpless  Want,  she  lias  never  closed  her  door. 

We  are  proud  of  our  beautiful  city,  proud  of  her  spreading 

fame, 
Proud  of  her  growing  greatness,— and  who  shall  chide  or 

blame? 
It  rests  with  us,  her  children,  stainless  to  keep  her  name. 

The  seasons  are  swiftly  flying,  and  the  years— how  they 
slip  away! 

We  are  nearing  a  mighty  landmark, — Freedom's  Centenni 
al  Day. 

Her  years  are  almost  a  hundred,  and  her  locks  are  not  yet 
gray, 

And  the  stain  that  was  on  her  garments,  thank  God,  it  is 
washed  away. 

She  was  born  in  the  midst  of  danger,  and  a  King  sent  forth 

his  slaves 
To  strangle  her  in  her  cradle.    They  came,  and  she  dug 

their  graves; 
But  the  sod  was  soaked  and  watered  with  the  blood  of  her 

faithful  braves. 

She  passed  through  seas  of  sorrow,  through  many  an  evil 

day, 
She  has  worn  her  garb  of  mourning— her  sackcloth  drear 

and  gray, 
Yet  she  bore  aloft  her  banner,  and  her  foes  were  swept 

away. 

On  the  birthday    that   is  coming,  may  her  children,  brave 

and  free, 

From  all  her  distant  borders,  come  and  gather  at  her  knee, 
Clasping  hands  like  loving  brothers,  in  peace  and  harmony, 
While  the  sword,  forgot  in  its  scabbard,  is  rusting  silently. 


132  WALLS  OF  CORN  AND  OTHER  POEMS. 

'Tis  well  the  Future's  hidden— well  we  cannot  tear  away, 
The  dark  and  silent  curtain  'twixt  to-morrow  and  to-day; 
He  who  borrows  future  trouble,  has  a  weary  debt  to  pay. 

Let  us  dropour  sins  and  errors  in  the  grave  of  'Seventy-four, 
Let  us  roll  a  stone  above  them,  that  they  resurrect  no  more: 
Let  us  not  return  to  take  them,  though  tempted  hard  and 
sore. 

This  is  the  noblest  wisdom  ever  clasped  to  mortal  breast — 
Wheresoever  one  is  working,  just  to  do  his  level  best; 
To  accept  the  present  duty,  and  leave  to  God  the  rest. 


My  lay  is  ended.    Kindly  think  sometimes 
Amid  your  pleasures,  of  the  carrier  boy, 

Who  on  this  day,  in  simple,  cheerful  rhymes, 
Sang  you  a  New  Year  Song,  and  wished  you  joy. 


Beyond  the  River. 

The  time  must  come,  I  know,  when  we  shall  part- 
All  ties  must  sever: 

This  golden  zone,  enclasping  heart  to  heart, 
Must  snap  and  shiver. 

But  doth  yon  deep,  dark  stream,  part  evermore? 

Or  shall  we  meet  and  greet  on  that  far  shore, 
Beyond  the  river? 

If  we  shall  meet— oh!  would  that  I  knew  how! 
In  saintly  blessing? 

Or  shall  we  stand  as  we  are  standing  now— 
Mutely  caressing? 

Is  yonder  life  but  this  grown  rich  and  grand? 

Or  is  humanity  left  on  the  strand- 
Dropped  in  undressing? 


WALLS  OF  CORN  AND  OTHER  POEMS.  133 

Oh  would  I  knew!  The  misty  clouds  that  lie 

Those  waters  over 
Still  darkly  droop,  still  mock  my  straining  eye, 

Still  thickly  hover. 

I  call  and  question.    Silence  hath  no  tone. 
In  vain  I  ask  how  shall  I  meet  my  own — 

As  friend  or  lover? 

Liove  is  so  precious,  life  so  frail  and  fleet! 

Hearts  bleed  and  quiver; 
Tears  wet  the  prints  of  dear  departing  feet, 

Gone  hence  forever. 
Parting  is  bitter.    If  I  could  but  know 
That  thou  wilt  be  to  me  the  same  as  now, 

Beyond  the  river! 

Is  love  eternal V  Still  yon  sullen  cloud 

Answers  me  never. 
In  vain  I  plead;  it  folds  its  sable  shroud, 

Silent  forever. 

But  I  shall  know.     'Tis  useless  to  contend 
With  shadows;  yet  all  doubt  shall  have  an  end 

Beyond  the  river. 


Harvest-Home. 

Again  the  Harvest-Home.    Night  after  night, 
The  full,  round  moon  climbs  up  the  dusky  east, 

Ere  yet  the  day  quite  yields  its  throne  to-night, 
Ere  yet  the  sunset's  glow  has  wholly  ceased. 

Night  follows  night  in  glorious,  stately  march. 

The  same  round  moon,  the  same  far,  dusky  stars, 
In  solemn  splendor,  from  the  vaulted  arch 

Shed  their  soft  light  in  pale  and  misty  bars. 

Do  you  remember  one  sweet  summer's  prime- 
Such  nights  as  these,  such  dim  and  dusky  glow — 


134  WALLS  OF  CORN  AND  OTHER  POEMS. 

When  first  our  two  lives  met  in  blended  rhyme? 
We  both  were  young— and  it  was  long  ago. 

What  hops  was  ours,  as,  standing  hand  in  hand, 
Amid  the  summer  moon's  soft,  tender  light, 

We  wove  our  plans  together,  strand  by  strand, 
In  fearless  faith?    How  is  it,  Love,  to-night? 

As  then,  the  whispering  winds  steal  through  the  mm: 
As  then,  we  hear  the  owl's  weird,  solemn  cry; 

As  then,  the  tawny  fields,  but  newly  shorn. 
Wet  with  the  night  dews,  bare  and  silent  lie. 

As  then,  the  bark  of  dogs  sounds  faint  and  far; 

As  then,  the  grasses  hide  an  insect  throng; 
As  then,  the  glowworm  shows  its  tiny  star; 

As  then,  rings  sharp  and  clear  the  cricket's  song. 

As  then,  the  solemn  moonlight,  shining  down, 
Blent  with  the  twilight's  last  departing  ray. 

Then  seems  but  now — and  yet  your  locks  were  brown. 
And  now  I  see  them  thickly  strewn  with  gray. 

Then  seems  but  now.  1  feel  the  same  dear  arm 
That  then  I  leaned  upon,  about  ni3  thrown: 

The  voice  that  swayed  me  with  its  subtle  charm 
Still  keeps  for  me  the  old  caressing  tone. 

Then  seems  but  now— and  yet  your  steps  are  slow; 

Your  brow  shows  prints  of  pain,  and  toil,  and  care; 
And  I  have  seen  my  youth's  last  roses  blow. 

I,  too,  am  growing  old — why  should  1  care? 

What  matters  it?    In  counting  off  our  life 
By  harvest  moons,  the  checkered,  toilsome  years 

Show  in  their  record  more  of  peace  than  strife, 
More  joy  than  sorrow,  more  of  smiles  than  tears. 


WALLS  OF  CORN  AND  OTHER  POEMS.  135 

Time  flies  apace.    Spring  flowers,  and  Winter-rime, 
And  sweet  June  roses,  swiftly  go  and  come: 

Yet  the  full  richness  of  our  youthful  prime 
Still  crowns  us  both  anew  at  Harvest  Home. 


Morning  View  of  Lake  Michigan. 

Here  on  this  rugged  bluff  I  stand  alone 

And  look  out  on  the  waters.    Could  I  tell— 

Which  I  cannot— all  that  I  see  and  feel; 

Could  I  but  give  the  swelling  thoughts  a  tone 

That  press  up  to  my  lips— a  song  so  sweet, 

So  thrilling  in  its  tuneful  harmonies, 

.Should  send  out  on  the  air  its  rythmic  beat, 

That  heedless  wights  should  pause  amid  the  street, 

And  listen  with  bowed  heads  and  tearful  eyes. 

My  eyes  are  wet      The  beauty  of  the  lake 
At  this  still  morning  hour,  draped  in  its  veil 
Of  dreamy  mist  so  soft,  transluscerit,  pale; 
Its  music,  as  the  blue  waves  gently  break, 
Move  me  to  tears.    Yet  am  I  all  alone; 
No  sympathetic  glances  kindle  mine, 
No  answering  eye,  where  kindred  feelings  shine, 
Another  heart  interprets  to  my  own. 

Ah,  well!    Here  are  the  softly  gleaming  waves, 
Here  are  the  gold-fringed  clouds,  above,  below, 
Which  from  yon  heaven  and  from  the  waters  glow; 
Here  is  sunshine,  which  my  forehead  laves, 
And  there  the  white-winged  ships  go  sailing  by; 
The  cool  wind  blows,  and  lightly  lifts  my  hair. 
Can  there  be  solitude  amid  a  scene  so  fair? 
Can  one  be  lonely  with  such  company? 


13(i  WALLS  OF  CORN   AND  OTHER  POEMS. 


me  lies  the  city,  fast  asleep, 
Save  early  workmen  going  to  their  toil 
With  sounding  tread.    The  long  day's  dusty  moil 
Clanks  not  along  the  streets.    The  convent  bell, 
Whose  tones  above  the  dreamers  softly  swell, 
Unheeded,  troubles  not  their  slumber  deep. 
The  sleeping  city  and  pale  blue  lake, 
The  convent  bell,  the  low  waves'  ceaseless  break, 
The  morning  mists—  all  these  shall  memory  keep. 


One  Hour. 

Only  to  rest  an  hour!  to  loose  the  strain 
Of  feverish  toil— with  quiet  pulse  to  lie 

And  watch  with  folded  hands  the  upper  main. 
Where  ships  of  soft,  white  cloud  go  floating  by. 

Neither  to  work  nor  think!  to-morrow's  care 
Folded  and  wrapped,  and  closely  laid  away; 

To  make  no  effort,  just  to  drink  the  air, 
Whose  warm,  sweet  kisses  round  my  temples  play. 

Some  viewless  sorrow  may  be  stealing  nigh: 
1  will  not  weep  for  grief  I  do  not  know. 

I  will  not  shrink  beneath  this  April  sky, 
And  shiver  at  the  thought  of  April  snow. 

A  bird  sings  yonder  on  a  leafless  tree; 

His  songs  are  merry— would  they  be  so  gay 
Did  he  sit  pondering  on  storms  to  be— 

On  sleety  rain  to  come  another  day? 

You  tell  me  that  the  world  is  going  wrong — 
What  then?    I  cannot  stay  the  surging  tide; 

Its  many  waters  have  a  flow  too  strong; 
I  cannot  turn  a  stream  so  deep  and  wide. 


WALLS  OF  CORN  AND  OTHER  POEMS.  137 

Tlien  let  me  rest;  enough,  just  now,  is  life; 

Let  labor  and  ambition  wholly  cease- 
All  loads  laid  down,  hushed  every  thought  of  strife; 

For  this  one  hour  I  crave  but  perfect  peace. 


Trailing  Clouds. 

The. trailing  clouds  hang  low; 
Their  misty  folds  drag  slow 

O'er  the  ground; 
And  the  rain  makes,  as  it  falls 
On  the  roof  and  on  the  walls, 

Scarce  a  sound . 

I  sit  and  idly  dream, 

While  the  rain-drops  drip  and  stream 

From  the  eaves; 
And  memory's  folded  book 
Slowly  opens,  and  I  look 

Through  the  leaves. 

I  cannot  see  the  town, 

Nor  the  prairies,  yellow-brown, 

Through  the  mist; 
But  these  pages,  blurred  with  years, 
I  can  read  them  through  my  tears, 

When  I  list. 

I  see  here  as  I  look 

Through  the  pages  of  the  book,— 

Flinching  not, — 
Gray  shadows,  glints  of  sun; 
Lost  battles,  battles  won; 

Woman's  lot. 

Green  paths,  with  sunshine  sweet; 
Rough  steeps,  to  aid  my  feet; 
Broken  staves; 


WALLS  OF  CORN  AND  OTHER  POEMS. 

Love's  rapture,  wildly  throbbing, 
The  grief,  as  wildly  sobbing 
Over  graves. 

Must  ill  all  good  alloy? 
Will  sorrow,  chasing  joy, 

Never  rest? 

Ah,  why  the  bitter-sweet? 
And  why  the  bleeding  feet? 

God  knows  best. 

Listen!    A  tolling  bell 

Sobs  out  its  mournful  knell 
Over  there; 

And  I  know  that  hearts  are  aching — 

Perhaps  some  heart  is  breaking- 
Over  there. 

At  last  the  clouds  are  lifted, 
And  sunset  gold  is  sifted 

To  the  plain. 

Oh,  peace  for  those  who  grieve! 
May  it  come  like  light  at  eve 

After  rain. 


Why? 

I  tell  you  how  1  feel  on  this  or  that, 

As  simply  as  a  child  confesses  at  . 

His  mother's  knee.    You  tease  and  ask  me  why. 

Smiling  down  on  me  with  quizzing  eye. 

I  do  not  answer,  or  I  say,  "  because  ", 
Which  is  a  woman's  way  and  always  was. 
I  state  a  truth— a  fact  I  know  full  well: 
The  cause,  the  "  why  ",  I  don't  attempt  to  tell. 


WALLS  OF  CORN  AND  OTHER  POEMS. 


Philosophy  explains,  what  ere  I  think, 
I  can  resolve  to  causes,  link  by  link- 
Not  what  I  feel.    Emotion  is  a  king 
Tyranical,  who  bears  no  questioning. 

I  lay  mute  reason  by  upon  the  shelf, 
Feel  so  and  so,  and  cannot  help  myself. 
Then,  when  I  tell  you,  do  not  put  your  "  Why '?' 
Smiling  down  on  me  with  your  quizzing  eye. 


Don't  You  Tell. 

If  you  have  a  cherished  secret, 

Don't  you  tell: — 
Not  your  friend — for  his  tympanum 

Is  a  bell, 

With  its  echoes,  wide  rebounding, 
Multiplied  and  far  resounding, — 

Don't  you  tell. 

If,  yourself,  you  cannot  keep  it, 

Then,  who  can? 

Could  you  more  expect  of  any  other  man'? 
Yet  you  put  him,  if  he  tells  it, 
If  he  gives  away  or  sells  it,  undef  ban. 

Sell  your  gems  to  any  buyer 

In  the  mart: 
Of  your  wealth,  to  feed  the  hungry, 

Spare  a  part. 

Blessings  on  the  open  pocket! 
But  your  secret — keep  it,  lock  it 

In  your  heart. 


140  WALLS  OF  CORN  AND  OTHER  POEMS. 


Blackbirds. 

Day  after  day  the  blackbirds  came 
And  perched  in  flocks  on  my  hickory  tree, 

While  the  leaves,  at  flrst  just  touched  with  flame, 
Grew  golden,  then  brown  as  brown  could  be, 

And  still  they  came  in  asable  shower — 
A  flittering,  chattering,  noisy  crowd— 

And  I  wondered,  watching  them  hour  by  hour, 
What  they  said  when  they  talked  so  loud. 

Sadly  the  leaves  fell,  one  by  one, 

Floating,  fluttering  slowly  down- 
Leaves  so  green  in  the  summer  sun. 

Now  so  withered,  and  sere,  and  brown. 

The  tree  grew  bare:  I  watched  one  day 
In  vain— the  blackbirds  came  no  more; 

And  then  I  knew  they  had  fled  away. 
And  my  sorrowful  thought  this  burden  bore: 

The  winds  shall  blow  through  my  hickory-tree. 
The  sifting  snow,  and  the  sleety  rain: 

But,  little  I  know  what  awaiteth  me 
Ere  the  leaves  and  the  blackbirds  come  again \ 


Down  Below. 

They  say  that  under  the  ocean  waves, 
At  the  feet  of  the  rocks  where  ships  go  down, 

There  are  halls  of  silence— peaceful  caves, 
Where  lie  the  sailors  whom  tempests  drown, 

Where  monsters  sleep,  and  mermaids  fair 

Comb  forever  their  pale  green  hair. 


WALLS  OF  CORN  AND  OTHER  i»OEMS. 


There  is  surf  and  foam  when  tierce  winds  blow, 
There  is  rush  of  billows  and  thunderous  roar, 

Still  in  those  chambers  down  below, 
There  is  calm  forever  and  evermore. 

No  wind,  no  wave;  the  sunk  ship's  mast 

Is  out  of  the  tempest's  reach  at  last. 

Life  is  a  sea — so  the  poet  says — 
And  yet  the  deepest  of  human  souls 

Shows  smoothest  surface  in  stormiest  days. 
Far  underneath  the  wild  tide  rolls 

Through  hidden  caverns  in  surging  flow, 

As  the  gusts  of  the  tempest  come  and  go. 

Underneath,  perchance,  a  careless  smile, 
The  sorest  heartache  lies  fathoms  down; 

And  laughter  is  oft  but  a  trick  of  guile 
To  hide  the  pricks  of  a  thorny  crown, 

In  direst  conflict  no  sound  is  heard, 

And  the  deepest  grief  hath  never  a  word. 

So,  a  great,  strong  soul — when  truth  is  said — 
Is  a  sea  whose  heavings  are  out  of  sight; 

It  buries  deepest  its  best  loved  dead, 
And  sends  out  bravely  its  "song  in  the  night." 

There  are  throbs  of  anguish,  terrible  throes, 

Veiled  bv  a  surf  ace  of  calm  repose. 


WALLS  OF  CORN  AND  OTHER  POEMS. 


Hours  of  Pain. 

With  the  hot  blood  rushing,  swelling. 

Surging  through  my  throbbing  bmin, 
Worn  and  weary,  past  the  telling, 

Nerveless  in  the  grasp  of  pain, 

Lean  on  my  thorny  pillow, 

Strewn  with  torments  o'er  and  o'er; 
Every  poise  a  bursting  billow, 

Breaking  on  a  tortured  shore. 

But  there  come,  in  soft  caressing. 

Gentle  touches,  loving  hands; 
As  the  soft  rain  drops  its  blessing 

On  the  scorched  and  thirsty  lands. 

Tender  voices,  softly  falling. 

Drop  their  pity  in  my  ear, 
Sweet  as  tinkling  waters,  calling 

O'er  a  desert  parched  and  sere. 

Bless  your  music,  sweet  young  voic?s— 
Dear  young  hands,  your  soft  caress! 

Pain  is  fierce,  but  love  rejoices 
In  its  conquering  tenderness. 


WALLS  OP  CORN  AND  OTHER  POEMS.  143 


Harvest. 

Green  are  the  cornfields,  the  wheat  is  golden; 

Fresh  are  the  footprints  of  radiant  June; 
Fair  is  tlie  Earth,  with  all  of  its  olden 

Noontide  splendor,  its  midnight  moon. 

Xight  comes  slowly,  with  soft  hues  blended, 
Purple  of  twilight,  and  cloud-wrack  dun; 

Sounds  and  sights  of  the  day  are  ended, 
Clatter  of  reaper  and  glare  of  sun. 

Shocks  of  grain  in  the  night  show  dimly, 
Dotting  the  swells  of  the  prairie's  breast; 

Down  where  yon  headlight  goes  gliding  grimly, 
Courses  the  steed  that  knows  no  rest. 

Whistle  of  engine,  and  jar  of  thunder, 
Startle  the  silence  and  then  are  gone; 

Still  as  before,  is  the  valley  yonder; 
Softly  as  ever  the  stream  flows  on. 

I  think,  as  I  sit  here,  idly  dreaming— 
The  wind  on  my  temples,  the  dew  on  my  hair, 

And  the  radiant  moonbeams  o'er  me  streaming — 
Of  another  summer,  as  sweet  and  fair. 

Then,  as  now,  stood  close  together 
Cluster! ng  sheaves  on  fields  new  shorn; 

Soft,  sweet  winds  of  the  summer  weather 
Stole  through  the  ranks  of  dark  green  corn. 

I  think  of  a  night— the  moon  shone  brightly; 

I  stood  bare-browed  at  the  garden  gate — 
I  think  of  a  hand  on  my  head  laid  lightly, 

And  a  voice— to  me  'twas  the  voice  of  fate. 


144  WALLS  OF  CORN  AND  OTHER  POEMS. 

Life's  sweet  summer  has  bloomed  and  faded; 

Sheaves  have  followed  the  red  June  rose; 
Flecks  of  the  frost  in  my  locks  are  braided; 

Wait  I  now  for  the  winter  snows. 

Yet,  oh,  yet,  while  life  shall  linger — 

Let  its  tides  swell  high,  or  ebb  and  fall- 
Never  shall  ruthless,  defacing  finger 
Touch  that  picture  on  memory's  wall. 


The  Trail  of  '49. 

Across  the  prairie  where  I  dwell, 
Stretches  away,  from  swell  to  swell, 
A  road  that  might  a  story  tell. 

The  track  is  wide  and  deeply  cut 

By  wheels  of  heavy  wagons,  but 

The  rank  grass  grows  in  seam  and  rut. 

'Tis  the  old  trail  of  ;' Forty-Nine ;"— 
Thus  history,  in  graven  line, 

Has  stamped  this  prairie  home  of  mine. 

The  years  have  passed  with  snow  and  rain, 
And  mighty  frosts  upheaved— in  vain — 
For  still  this  track  shows  clear  and  plain. 

Tracing  it  where  it  winds  away, 
There  comes  to  me  at  twilight  gray. 
A  vision  of  another  day. 

I  see  the  covered  wagons  go, 

Across  the  prairie  toiling  slow, 

Through  the  dreary  storm,  through  summer  glow. 


WALLS  OF  CORN  AND  OTHER  POEMS. 


I  see  them  with  their  human  freight — 
Hearts  throbbing  high  with  hope  elate — 
Pass  onward  to  a  doubtful  fate. 

Months  pass:  a  weary,  jaded  train, 
Worn  with  fatigue,  disease  and  pain, 
Creeps  slowly  o'er  a  desert  plain. 

Above,  a  cloudless,  burning  sky; 
Below,  naught  greets  the  weary  eye, 
Save  wastes  of  sand  and  alkali. 

No  rain  descends,  no  water  flows; 

No  cool  trees  bsnd,  no  green  thing  grows; 

Yet  still  that  sad  train  onward  goes. 

Fatigue  and  thirst!    No  tongue  can  tell 
The  victim's  anguish,  fierce  and  fell— 
His  fondest  dream  a  bubbling  well. 

And  some  go  mad  and  wildly  rave: 
Some  find  what,  at  the  last,  they  crave, 
The  silence  of  a  desert  grave. 

The  living  speak  in  husky  tones; 

The  poor  brutes  drop  with  piteous  moans; 

The  track  is  paved  with  bleaching  bones. 

Still  onward — slower  and  more. slow — 

Dogged  nightly  by  a  stealthy  foe, 

Toward  mountain  passes  chocked  with  snow. 

One  sleeps,  to  dream  of  home  and  wife; 
He  wakes,  at  call  to  midnight  strife 
With  tomahawk  and  scalping  knife. 


Past  perils,  miseries  untold, 

Past  desert  heat,  past  mountains  cold, 

What  waits  them  in  the  land  of  gold? 


146  WALLS  OF  CORN  AND  OTHER  POEMS. 

Go,  search  a  checkered  history 
Of  soon-got  hoards,  as  soon  to  flee, 
Of  princely  wealth  and  poverty. 

Dark  tales  of  crime,  of  murders  fell, 
Of  drunken  brawl,  of  gambling  hell — 
Good  chroniclers  have  told  them  well. 

Go,  search  them  all,  through  every  line- 
Yet  deign  to  read  this  tale  of  mine, 
Of  the  old  trail  of  "  Fortv-Nine." 


Hazard. 

A  strange  and  a  wonderful  tiling  is  our  mortal  life! 
Strange  in  its  troubled  joy,  in  its  secret  strife; 
Strange  in  its  helpless  groping  for  hidden  light, 
With  each  step  forward  only  a  step  in  the  night. 

Hope  is  a  siren  that  lures  with  a  deceitful  smile, 
Warbles  bewitching  strains  with  her  lips  of  guile, 
Sings  of  to-mornw's  pleasure,  to-morrow's  gain; 
But  the  gain  oft  proves  but  loss,  and  the  pleasure  pain, 

Caught  is  many  a  foot  in  a  silken  snare; 
Ploughed  is  m my  a  heart  by  a  golden  share; 
Many  a  harvest  of  pain  is  in  pleasure  sown, 
Watered  by  secret  tears  and  in  silence  mown. 

A  curss  m;iy  lurk  in  the  p  ilm  of  a  soft  white  hand; 
Many  a  life  is  wrecked  on  a  gleaming  strand. 
Fair  is  the  Danger  Isle,  with  her  emerald  shore; 
But  the  ship  that  treads  her  rocks  returns  no  more. 

Fair  is  the  sail  that  floats  o'er  a  rippling  sea; 
Sweet  is  love's  thrilling  strain,  sung  tenderly; 
But  dire  the  wreck  that  parts  on  the  pitiless  wave, 
And  the  sad  song  that  is  sung  at  an  open  grave. 


WALLS  OF  CORN  AND  OTHER  POEMS.  147 

Bright  is  many  a  morn  that  soon  clouds  o'er; 

Dark  is  the  sullen  noon,  with  its  angry  roar; 

Dark  is  the  sullen  noon,  and  the  night  is  black; 

And  our  stricken  treasures  lie  in  the  lightning's  tr^ck. 

t       Vainly  we  seek  to  pierce  tli3  dark  Unknown; 
Vainly  implore  of  Silenca  an  answering  tone; 
Vainly  we  ask  of  Fate  her  scroll  to  lend; 
One  thing  only  is  sure— that  death  is  not  the  end. 


A  Morning  Call. 

Come  in  and  welcome,  tiny  thing, 
With  snowy  breast  and  soft  brown  wing, 

And  beak  of  tawny  hue. 
But  why,  I  pray,  this  wild  alarm? 
I  will  riot  let  you  come  to  harm; 

I'm  fond  of  such  as  you. 

Stop,  little  bird!  you  foolish  thing! 
Why  will  you  beat  your  tender  wing 

Against  the  cruel  pane? 
I  do  the  same  myself;  I  fret 
Against  the  bonds  about  me  set, 

And  find  it  all  in  vain. 

I  cannot  make  you  understand. 
Wait  -I  will  take  you  in  my  hand, 

And  put  you  through  the  door. 
You  precious,  panting  little  mite! 
The  cat  would  eat  you  at  a  bite 

And  lick  his  jaws  for  more. 

He  shall  not  have  you,  nor  will  I. 
Keep  you  from  yonder  clear  blue  sky. 
There!  soar  where  'er  you  list. 


148          WALLS  OF  CORN  AND  OTHER  POH.MS. 

To  cage  a  bird  breaks  Nature's  laws: 
And  then  Iain  and  always  was 
An  abolitionist. 

Go,  find  your  mate:  she  waits  for  you 
Somewhere  in  yonder  fields  of  blue, 

Or  on  some  swaying  bough. 
Tell  her  you  got  into  a  scrape, 
But  made  a  fortunate  escape — 

And  please  ju.st  tell  her  how. 

You  might  have  met  a  prisoner's  doom, 
When  you  came  blundering  to  my  room; 

Yet  I  have  set  you  free. 
Then,  sometimes  fold  your  wee  brown  wing 
Upon  my  hickory  tree,  and  sing 

Your  sweetest  songs  to  me. 


Love,  and  Hate. 

Although  a  thousand  leagues  two  hearts  divide, 
That  love  has  joined,  the  gulf  is  not  so  great 

As  that  twixt  two.  who,  dwelling  side  by  side 
B3hold  between,  the  black  abyss  of  Hate. 


Indiana. 

On  the  death  of  Mrs.  Indiana  Demerritt,  of  Aztalan, 
Wisconsin. 

Underfoot  the  grass  is  springing, 

All  tha  earth  is  smiling  sweet; 
Overhead  the  birds  are  singing 

Joyful  things  each  other  greet: 
While  they  lay  thee  down  to  rest 
With  thy  babe  upon  thy  breast, 

Indiana. 


WALLS  OF  CORN  AND  OTHER  POEMS.  .          149 

Softly  murmurs  yonder  river, 

Hazel-bordered,  down  the  dell, 
While,  with  mournful  sob  and  quiver, 

Slowly,  slowly,  tolls  the  bell, 
Voice  of  bird,  or  bell,  or  stream 
Shall  not  break  thy  peaceful  dream, 

Indiana- 
Aching  hearts  are  throbbing,  swelling, 

With  a  deep  and  heavy  pain: 
Breasts  are  heaving,  tears  are  welling, 

Falling  on  the  sod,  like  rain. 
Sadly  tolls  the  village  bell  - 
Tolls  each  aching  heart  as  well. 

Indiana. 

Quiet  lives  have  most  of  beauty, 

Noiseless  goodness  most  endears. 
Mother-love  and  wifely  duty 

Leave  behind  them  saddest  tears; 
And  the  world  can  never  know 
Why  thy  dear  ones  miss  thee  so, 

Indiana. 

Drear  the  room?  that  late  did  hold  thea, 

Where  thy  footsteps  went  and  came; 
Arms  are  empty  that  did  fold  thee, 

Lips  are  white  that  spoke  thy  name. 
Gone  thy  smile,  thy  gentle  grace  — 
Ah,  thy  home's  an  empty  place, 

Indiana, 

Where  thy  silent  form  reposes, 

Creeping  mosses,  eglantine, 
Glossy  vines  and  summer  roses, 

Loving  hands  shall  sadly  twine. 
Yet  the  fragrant  blooms  shall  fall 
O'er  a  sweeter  flower  than  all — 

Indiana, 


15D  WALLS  OF  CORN  AND  OTHER  POEMS. 

Still  and  deap  sh:ill  be  thy  slum')  >r, 
Lying  with  thy  head  so  low; 

Naught  shall  fret,  no  care  shall  cumber, 
While  the  seasons  come  and  go. 

Fallen  flower,  with  severed  stem, 

Thus  I  sing  thy  requiem, 

Indiana. 


Carrier's  Address. 

MDLXXV. 

Hearken,  kind  friends.    Upon  this  New  Year's  day, 

While  hand  grasps  hand  with  warm  and  friendly  grip, 

And  joyful  greetings  leap  from  lip  to  lip, 

Scorn  not  to  hear  the  little  1  shall  say; 

For,  call  it  what  you  will  -  a  spaech  or  song — 

I  promise  one  thing:  it  shall  not  be  long. 

To  hold  before  you  the  historic  roll 
Of  seventy-four  I  don't  pretend  to  try, 
(You  know  the  record  quite  as  well  as  I) 
Nor  yet  to  open  up  the  sealed  scroll 
Of  seventy-five.    I  could  not  if  I  would,' 
And,  what  i.s  more,  I  would  not  if  I  could. 

Evil,  catastrophe,  may  loom  ahead, 

Close  wrappad  in  shadows.     What  would  be  the  gain, 

If  one  could  strip  tham  naked?    Naught  but  pain. 

We  baar  an  evil  twiea  which  ones  we  dread; 

And  as  to  good,  to  be  most  full,  complete, 

There  must  be  some  surprise  to  spice  the  sweet. 

Some  things  have  happened,  and  some  others  will, 

No  doubt.    I  offer  you  these  sage  reflections. 

Instead  of  going  over  the  elections, 

And  wailing  over  past  and  future  ill. 

The  old  year  buried,  vain  regrets  should  cease, 

While  welcome  we  the  New  with  songs  of  peace. 


WALLS  OF  CORN  AND  OTHER  POEMS.  151 


The  world  moves  on;  barred  is  the  backward  track 
Witli  debris  of  the  ages.    Time  sweeps  by, — 
The  months,  the  days,  the  moments, — noiselessly: 
And  always,  always  onward,  never  back. 
Time  hath  no  ebb.?;  its  tides  flow  steadily, 
Ever,  forever,  toward  a  shoreless  sea. 

The  past  is  buried;  rake  not  up  the  sod 

For  mouldering  bones,  nor  water  it  with  tears. 

Along  with  buried  hopes  let  buried  fears 

Rest  in  darkness.     Merciful  the  clod 

"Which  hides  what  it  were  pain  to  look  upon— 

The  "  might  have  beens",  the  good  deeds  left  undone. 

Let  the  dead  sleep:  the  present  lives,  we  know; 
To  grapple  that  is  all.     None  ever  may 
Do  aught  of  good  or  evil  yesterday. 
Its  tale  is  told  and  ended— let  it  go. 
And,  for  to-morrow,  not  yet  need  we  bear 
(Perchance  we  never  need)  its  grief  and  care. 


The  days  go  by,— how  swift  their  flying  feet! 
The  year  just  born  will  soon  be  old  and  gray, 
And  down  the  swallowing  past  be  swept  away. 
And  this  poor  life— so  dear,  so  frail  and  fleet- 
Is  made  but  of  such  quickly  vanished  years, 
Ends  with  a  pall,  a  grave,  and  mourners'  tears. 

The  days  go' by;  we  cannot  stay  their  flight. 
But  he  who  fills  them  fullest  as  they  fly, 
His  year  is  longest — since  'tis  measured  by 
What  it  contains.     Fourscore  were  but  a  night, 
Live  in  a  dungeon;  and  scarce  more  it  seems, 
Wasted  in  trifling,  or  in  empty  dreams. 


(52  WALLS  OF  CORN  AXD  OTHER  POEMS. 


Fourscore. 

Sire  with  the  silver  hair, 
Shrunken  whose  features  are, 

Why  dost  thou  weep? 
Sad  art  thou,  weary  one, 
Nearing  the  set  of  sun, 
That  thy  work  nobly  done, 

Ends  with  a  sleep! 

Cheer  these;  thy  hands  are  worn, 
Bleeding  thy  feet  and  torn; — 

Wouldst  thou  not  rest? 
On  yonder  Silent  Shore 
Soundeth  no  battle-roar; 
Tliere  shall  fierce  storms  no  more 

Beat  on  thy  breast. 

Struggle  and  toil  and  care, 
Sure  thou  hast  borne  thy  share; 

Strength  is  but  let. 
Young  limbs  are  strong  and  free, 
Young  shoulders  take  from  thee 
Loads  that  weigh  heavily:— 

Be  thou  content. 

Under  cool  grasses  sweet, 
Creeping  at  head  and  feet, 

Thus  shalt  thou  sleep. 
Under  the  autumn  glow, 
Under  the  winter  snow, 
Never  a  pang  to  know — 

Why  dost  thou  weep? 

After  the  peaceful  night 
Cometh  the  fadeless  light — 
(Hope  of  the  just). 


WALLS  OF  CORN  AND  OTHER  POEMS.  153 

After  the  sword  and  shield, 
i-'alms  shall  the  victor  wield. 
Count  it,  then,  gain  to  yield 
Dust  unto  dust. 


Fame. 

Thou  who  canst  rouse,  by  power  of  song, 

The  heart  of  the  throng, 

See  thou  stir  not  its  lowest  deep. 

Wake  not  the  chords  that  are  best  asleep, 
Lest  echoes  fell 

Shall  vex  thine  ear  and  affright  thy  soul, 

Lest  the  praise  which  is  blame— which  shall  work  the  dole- 
Shall  around  thee  swell. 

Fame  is  like  wine— a  cup  to  sip 

With  temperate  lip. 
Taste  the  sparkles  that  bead  the  rim, 
It  shall  quicken  the  blood  through  brain  and  limb; 

But,  drain  it  dry, 

Thou  shall  age  in  heart  while  young  in  years; 
Thou  shalt  learn  what  heartaches,  sighs  and  tears 

In  the  bottom  lie. 


The  Fate  of  a  (iciiius. 

Among  the  New  York  hills,  in  a  land  of  snow  and  sleet, 
Where  the  folks  plow  down  to  hard-pan  to  sow  their  rye  and 

wheat, 
Where  the  children  climb  the  steeps  as  they  trudge  away  to 

school, 
There  dwelt  a  toiling  genius,  whom  his  neighbors  called  a 

fool. 


154  WALLS  OF  CORN  AND  OTHER  POEMS. 

The  puzzle  and  the  wonder  of  all  the  country  town, 

His  name  was— well,  no  matter— suppose  wecall  him  Brown. 

His  form  was  bowed  and  shaky,  he  talked  with   hollow 

sound; 
And  when  he  walked  he  always  kept  his  eyes  upon  the 

ground. 

He  had  daughters,  he  had  sons,  and  to  them  did  this  befall: 

From  the  good  folks  in  the  Bible  he  named  them,  one  and 
all. 

They  were  Abraham  and  Jacob,  Matthew,  Mark  and  Jere 
miah, 

There  were  Rachel  and  Rebecca,  Peter,  Job  and  Hezekiah. 

They  lived  and  grew  in  spite  of  the  ansient  names  they 

bore; 
They  ate — when  they  could  get  it— and  swarmed  about  the 

door, 

Like  other  people's  children;  yet  shadows  o'er  them  hung, 
And  oft  were  they  assailed  by  the  scorn  of  taunting  tongue. 

I  have  told  you  how  the  neighbors  said   their  father  was  ;i 

fool, 

And  thus  on  their  young  heads  fell  the  shafts  of  ridicule. 
They  were  ragged  and  neglected,  their  days  were  glum  and 

drear, 
With  their  mother  always  sad,  and  their  father  was  always 

poor. 

And  this  was  what  did  ail  him:  he  had  a  settled  notion 
That  he  was  called  and  sent  to  invent  perpetual  motion. 
This  was  his  one  idea:  and  so  it  came  to  pass, 
That  his  children  oft  went  hungry  and  his  farming  went — 
to  grass. 

He  shut  himself  apart,  with  bolts  and  bars  and  screens, 
In  a  dingy  little  den,  where  he  built  his  droll  machines. 
Unearthly  combinations  beneath  his  hands  did  grow; 
But  one  thing  always  ailed  them— 'twas  this,  they  wouldn't 
go. 


WALLS  OF  CORN  AND  OTHER  POEMS.  155 

Tlie  wife  (poor  woman!)  died.    She  had  borne  the  load  of 

two; 

But  her  weary  work  was  over,  her  cheerless  journey  through. 
The  children,  one  by  one,  left  the  ancestral  door, 
With  their  odd  and  ancient  names  for  their  only  stock  and 

store. 

Still  the  old  man  toiled  and  pondered.      His  hair  grew  thin 

and  gray; 

Lower  he  stooped  and  lower,  as  the  years  they  slipped  away; 
He  poorer  grew  and  poorer,  till  not  a  cent  he  had; 
And  his  eye  grew  mild  and  milder; — at  last  old  Brown  went 

mad. 

Hut  his  madness  had  its  method.  And  his  darkened  brain 
Still  groped  the  one  idea  that  had  been  his  curse  and  bane. 
In  a  dazed  and  absent  fashion  he  talked  of  wheels  and 

bands, 
And  whittled  wooden  pulleys  with  his  long  and  bony  hands. 

The  poor  old  man  lay  dying;— 'twas  a  stormy  winter  night; 
O'er  his  forehead,  cold  and  damp,  strayed  his  locks  so  thin 

and  white. 
As  his  feet  slipped  down  the  bank   where -the  silent  river 

flows, 
Fie  smiled  and  faintly  whispered, — "I've  got  it — now  it 

goes ! " 


156  WALLS  OF  CORN  AND  OTHER  POEMS. 


Unbelief. 

O  ye  who  stand  aloft  on  Pisgah's  mountain. 

And  view  with  kindling  gaze  far  fields  of  bliss, 
Condemn  not  him  who  sits  at  Marah's  fountain, 

Or  wanders  blindly  through  the  wilderness. 

And  ye  who  sail,  calm  hands  of  faith  uplifting, 
By  chart  and  compass,  with  your  port  in  sight, 

O!  pity  him  who  floats,  bewildered,  drifting, 
Upon  an  unknown  sea,  amid  the  night. 

A  glorious  thing  is  faith— that  scales  the  mountain: 
That  rides  secure  where  unbelief  must  sink. 

Ye  say  there  pours  for  all  a  ceaseless  fountain; 
Yet— pity  him  that  thirsts  and  cannot  drink. 

Ye  offer  him  your  creed;  he  asks  ''Whence  is  it— 
From  heaven,  or  of  men?''  and  to  your  grief, 

He  doubts  and  questions,  and  at  last  denies  it. 
Is  he  to  blame?   Can  one  compel  belief? 

Condemn  him  not.    His  feet  are  bruised  and  weary 
With  wandering  to  and  fro;  his  aching  breast, 

So  sore  with  longing:  in  the  darkness  dreary 
He  gropes  for  light,  and  prays  in  vain  for  rest. 

But,  if  he  say:  I  will  stop  here,  and  hither 
Will  I  bring  all  my  blocks  and  build  my  tower. 

And  will  not,  hencaforth,  wander  any-whither — 
He  rests— but  ceases  thinkingfrom  that  hour, 

Better  to  wander,  still,  a  little  season — 
Better  to  drift  at  night  on  unknown  seas — 

Than  rest  in  creeds  untried  by  test  of  reason- 
Better  the  doubter's  pain  than  stagnant  ease. 


WALLS  OF  CORN  AND  OTHER  POEMS.  157 


A  Message. 

I  sit  in  the  twilight,  thinking; 

The  full  round  moon  rides  high, 
And  a  single  star  its  silvery  lamp 

Hangs  out  in  the  tinted  sky 

The  loud,  wild  winds  are  sleeping, 
But  a  breeze  on  the  highlands  born, 

Just  stirs  the  stalks  of  the  withered  grass, 
Just  rustles  the  hoary  corn. 

The  silent  frost  comes  creeping 

Over  the  prairie's  breast, 
And  the  deepening  night,  with  dusky  wing, 

Broods  over  a  land  at  rest. 

Still  I  sit  here,  sadly  thinking, 

Oh!  dear  ones,  kind  and  true! 
From  out  the  hush  of  the  silent  night 

My  heart  would  speak  to  you. 

I  call  across  the  darkness, 

In  eager,  passionate  tone: 
I  reach  out  longingly  to  touch 

The  hands  that  have  clasped  my  own. 

But  alas!    two  mighty  rivers 
Mock  at  my  outstretched  hand; 

Two  mighty  rivers  lie  between, 
And  many  a  league  of  land. 

Vainly  I  call;  and  the  distance 

Vainly  I  seek  to  span; 
You  heed  not,  hear  not,  my  eager  words, 

And  they  neither  bless  nor  ban. 


158  WALLS  OF  CORN  AND  OTHER  POEMS. 

Lo!  a  bit  of  snow-white  paper! 

Some  magic  shall  give  it  wings;— 
I  trow  such  messages  as  this 

Have  shaken  thrones  of  kings. 

It  shall  cleave  the  night  arid  the  silence, 
It  shall  flutter  down  to  your  feet; 

Ye  shall  know  the  love  in  my  heart  of  hearts- 
Thus  sundered  souls  do  greet. 


At  the  Garden  Gate. 

A  summer  night,  and  late, 
In  the  full  splendor  of  a  harvest  moon, 

They  stood  at  the  garden  gate — 
Two,  singing  the  old,  old  tune! 

They  sang  it  low, 
With  voices  falling  oft  to  whispers  sweet— 

The  notes  all  know. 

Ah.  life — mere  life— was  sweet 
To  those  two,  leaning  on  the  garden  gate! 

There  did  their  two  roads  meet, 
Thenceforth  but  one— one  hope,  one  fate. 

No  shadow  lies 
Amid  the  moonbeams  on  her  golden  hair. 

Nor  in  her  lifted  eyes. 

Sweet  love  and  trust! 
So  fresh,  so  beautiful  when  life  is  young, 

So  often  crushed! 
How  sped  the  low,  sweet  song  on  that  night  sung? 

Swift  flew  the  years, 
Bringing  life's  burdens  on  their  pauseless  wings, 

Its  smiles  and  tears. 


WALLS  OF  CORN  AND  OTHER  POBMS.  159 

But  the  same  love,  through  all, 
Burned  on  in  steady  trust,  in  fadeless  ray. 

Now  crept  along  the  wall 
Shadows  that  told  the  waning  of  the  day. 

Harvests  had  come  and  gone, 
One  after  one,  in  cycles  ever  new — 

Old  age  crept  on. 

Once  more,  in  the  summer  weather, 
They  leaned  upon  the  same  old  garden  gate — 

Leaned,  as  of  old,  together — 
The  harvest  moon  resplendent,  night,  and  late. 

The  old  eyes  met, 
As  in  that  other  moonlight,  long  ago— 

Witli  sweet  tears  wet. 

"  My  love,"  he  faltered, 
Laying  his  hand  upon  her  whitened  hair; 

The  voice  was  altered, 
With  little  breaks  and  quavers,  here  and  there — 

"  My  love,  'twas  long  ago  ! 
I  did  believe  thee  loving,  pure  and  sweet, 

But  now  I  know. 

'•  My  sweet  wife,  you  and  1 
Have  shared  much  grief,  and  many  precious  boons; 

But  lo,  the  end  is  nigh! 
We  shall  not  watch  through  many  harvest  moons 

The  pale  light  quiver; 
Pray,  darling,  that  we  clasp  immortal  hands 

Beyond  the  river." 


100  WALLS  OF  CORN  AND  OTHER  POEMS. 


The  Night  Lamp. 

It  is  a  summer  midnight— silent  hour! 

The  stars  look  down  upon  a  world  at  rest : 
Closed  are  bright  eyes,  and  closed  the  morning  flower; 

Night  holds  to  earth  her  dewy  forehead  prest. 

The  village  sleeps— upon  the  painted  walls, 
And  on  the  graveled  walks  and  roofs  of  brown, 

Through  old  and  hoary  trees  the  moonlight  falls, 
In  tangled,  trembling  net-work  creeping  down. 

The  village  sleeps— yet  yonder  gleams  a  light, 
From  out  a  narrow  door,  wide  open  flung. 

Sickly  and  wan,  it  sends  into  the  night 
A  tale  of  woe  upon  its  mournful  tongue. 

What  is  it  that  it  tells?    The  village  sleeps- 
Sweet  childhood  smiles  to  bright  dreams  flitting  o'er; 

Love  nestles  in  soft  arms,  but  sorrow  weeps! 
Death  stands  relentless  in  that  open  door. 

A  woman  kneels  beside  a  lowly  bed — 
A  woman  humbly  clad,  and  old  and  gray; 

Here  lies  her  own,  her  all.  and  he  is  dead! 
To  midnight  such  as  this,  when  comes  the  day'/ 

Not  in  this  world!    The  touch  of  dewy  morn 
Shall  wake  from  its  soft  sleep  the  silent  town; 

But  till  the  day  that  never  sets  is  born, 
On  this  old  heart  is  midnight  folded  down! 


WALLS  OF  CORN  AND  OTHER  POEMS.  161 


A  Little  Longer. 

A  little  longerthe  winds  shall  blow 
From  the  still  white  billows  of  frozen  seas, — 
Shall  shriek  through  the  branches  of  naked  trees, 

And  heap  the  valleys  with  hills  of  snow. 

A  little  longerthe  land  shall  lie, 
Corpse-like,  silent,  wrapped  in  a  shroud, 
While  storms  hold  wake  like  a  drunken  crowd, 

A  fierce,  wild  rout — but  the  end  is  nigh. 

A  deathless  heart  in  a  frozen  breast, 
Far  out  of  the  reach  of  frost  or  storm, 
Throbs  with  a  beat  as  soft  and  warm 

As  the  pulse  of  a  babe  in  its  rosy  rest. 

A  little  longer  the  winter-night— 
The  silent  sleeper  shall  wake  at  morn, — 
Shall  wake  and  sing,  with  joy  new-born, 

Wreathed  with  violets,  crowned  with  light. 

Looking  out  over  wastes  of  snow, 
Vast  and  boundless, — a  realm  of  death, — 
We  long  for  the  south-wind's  gentle  breath, 

For  carol  of  birds,  and  for  water's  flow. 

A  little  longer  to  feel  the  sting 
Of  the  creeping  frost,  and  against  the  blast 
To  close  our  doors  and  bolt  them  fast- 
Then  to  fling  them  wide  at  the  touch  of  Spring! 

O  days  of  sorrow!  O  Storms  of  Fate! 
Could  we  see  the  end,  when  clouds  hang  low, 
As  we  see  the  Spring  through  the  Winter's  snow, 

And  know  it  would  come— we  well  could  wait! 


WALLS  OF  CORN   AND  OTHER  POKMS. 


The  Old  Butternut  Tree. 

It  stood  by  the  old  front  gate — oh,  long  ago. — 
Braving  the  summer  storm  and  the  winter  snow; 
And  fresh  among  msmory's  treasures,  so  dear  to  me, 
Stands  in  perpetual  greenness  that  ancient  tree. 

Out  on  the  roadside  green,  where  passing  feet 
Turned  to  its  wide-spread  shade  from  the  dusty  street, 
And  laughing  children,  loitering  home  from  school, 
Sought,  with  their  cheeks  aflame,  its  shadows  cool. 

Here  gathered  the  early  birds,' and  built  and  sung; 
The  oriole's  cunning  nest  from  the  branches  swung; 
Its  broad  arms  sheltered  from  the  noontide's  blaze: 
And  the  nuts  dropped  on  the  turf  in  the  autumn  days. 

In  summer  eves,  when  work  was  laid  away, 
And  rest  and  coolness  ended  the  sultry  day, 
When  up  the  west  the  sunset  unrolled  its  gold, 
Like  billows  of  gorgeous  sea,  fold  over  fold, 

Then  gaihsrad  the  household  band  about  the  knee 

Of  the  old  Hiitternut,  the  homestead  tree 

They  watched  till  tha  glow  went  out  and  dews  came  down, 

And  the  moon  wore  up  the  east  her  silver  crown. 

All  were  togather  then:  where  are  they  now? 
The  world  is  wide,  as  the  sundered  dear  ones  know; 
And  children,  cradled  on  one  mother's  breast, 
Scattered,  like  eaglets  from  their  mountain  nest. 

The  brothers  are  bearded  men,  and  threads  of  gray 
Whiten  the  clustering  locks  from  day  to  day. 
Each  lights  his  household  tire— so  must  it  be— 
While  strangers  sit  in  the  shade  of  the  dear  old  tree. 

Buf,  one  sleeps  on  the  hill,  one  far  away, 

And  the  gray-haired  si  re  has  lain,  this  many  a  day, 


WALLS  OF  CORN  AND  OTHER  POEMS.  163 

By  the  side  of  the  mother  who  sang  sweet  lullabies, 
And  followed  our  childish  feet  with  her  gentle  eyes. 

A  generation  has  passed  and  been  laid  away; 

But  the  dear  old  roadside  tree  stands  there  to-day. 

Hoary,  lopped,  and  scared  by  many  a  storm, 

Yet  the  summers  still  veil  with  leaves  its  battered  form. 

Still  stream  i  through  the  broken  boughs  the  sunset  rays; 
Still  drop  the  nuts  on  the  turf  in  the  autumn  days; 
But  the 'olden  joys  can  never  come  back  to  me, 
And  ths  household  gods  have  flown  the  homestead  tree. 


The  Pity  of  it. 

It  seems  so  strange  to  watch  the  crowd 

That  gathers  on  some  festal  day, 
To  mark  the  lowly  and  the  proud, 

Aglow  with  mirth,  and  think  that  they 

Are  but  a  throng  of  masquers  gay. 
"Tis  true  that  some  show  signs  of  grief; 

Yon  sad-eyed  widow  wears  her  weeds; 
Yon  mother  mourns  her  fallen  leaf, 

And  tells  you  how  her  bosom  bleeds. 

Yon  soldier,  battered  in  the  wars, 
Moving  with  painful  step,  and  slow, 

Limps  proudly,  proudly  wears  his  scars: — 
Such  hurts  as  these  all  men  may  know. 

But  deeper  sorrow,  keener  throes, 
Are  hidden  by  a  careless  smile, 
And  laughter  on  the  lips  the  while 

The  heart  is  torn  and  rioone  knows. 

The  pity  of  this  earthly  life 
Is,  that  the  deepest  heartaches  lie 
Beyond  the  reach  of  sympathy; 


164  WALLS  OF  CORN  AND  OTHER  POEMS. 

The  sorest  wounds  are  got  in  strife 

Waged  in  tlie  dark,  where  none  may  see, 

Oft  hiding  still  the  rankling  knife 
That  tortures  with  slow  misery, 

I  see  my  neighbor  come  and  go 
With  airy  speech  and  smiling  lip; 

I  call  him  gay— I  little  know 

What  unseen  hand,  with  deadly  grip 

Clutches  his  heart,  what  tortures  slow 
Wears  out  his  life,  while  borne  alone, 
As  ceaseless  dropping  wears  a  stone. 

If  floods  destroy,  if  flres  consume, 
Full  hands  reach  out  in  charity; 

Across  misfortune's  darkest  gloom 
Shine  kindly  rays  of  sympathy: 

If  a  friend  dies  a  tolHng  bell 

May  to  the  world  the  story  tell. 

But  deeper  griefs  than  these  there  be— 

The  death's  head  in  the  closet  hid 
Is  ghastlier  than  the  still  white  face, 
Or  the  cold  hands,  in  waxen  grace 

Lying  beneath  the  coffin  lid. 

A  living  woe  from  mortal  eyes 
Is  curtained  close;  the  direst  strife 

Is  in  the  breast — And  herein  lies 
The  pity  of  this  earthly  life. 


WALLS  OF  CORN  AND  OTHER  POEMS. 


A  Home  out  West. 

I. 

A  "Prairie  schooner,1'  creeping  slow, 
Away-worn,  jaded  household  band, 

In  eager  voices  speaking  low- 
Thus  enter  we  the  "Promised  land." 

Behind  us  now  the  river's  tide, 

Rolls  dark  and  murk,  deep  and  wide. 

***** 

II 

A  warm  May  day;  a  sweet  soft  rain 

On  a  green  prairie  falling  fast; 
A  stopping  of  the  creeping  wane, 

And  the  glad  cry,  "we  are  home  at  last." 
After  long  weeks  of  travel  sore, 
The  goal  is  won;  we  ask1  no  more. 

Home!   With  our  roof  the  dripping  sky, 
Our  floor  the  rainsoaked  prairie's  breast! 

Through  all  the  wastes  that  round  us  lie, 
In  wild,  luxuriant  verdure  dressed, 

No  tree  extends  its  friendly  bough, 

We  seek  no  track  of  spade  or  plow. 

***** 

III 

A  year  has  fled.     What  wondrous  change 
Has  passed  this  way?    What  sorcery, 

What  silent  magic,  swift  and  strange, 
Has  wrought  such  wonders?    Come  and  see! 

Where  are  the  green  wastes,  soaked  with  rain? 
You  seek  thera?    You  shall  seek  in  vain. 

Spring  smiles  again;  the  sunbeams  play 
On  gabled  roof  and  crystal  pane. 


WALLS  OF  CORN  AND  OTHER  POEMS. 


Spring  smiles  again;  and  skies  of  May 

Bend  o'er  broad  fields  of  waving  grain. 
Here  are  young  orchards;  and  the  breeze 
Bends  the  lithe  limbs  of  forest  trees. 

The  spring  rains  beat  on  snowy  walls, 
Comely,  though  plain,  snug  built  arid  strong; 

Through  vine  wreathed  windows  sunshine  falls, 
With  cheerful  smile,  the  whole  day  long; 

And  happy  faces,  fresh  and  bright, 
Are  gathered  around  the  lamps  at  night. 

Our  prairie  home  is  sweet  and  dear; 

The  deep  rich  soil  holds  honest  wealth, 
The  airs  we  breathe  are  pure  and  clear; 

The  free,  strong  winds  waft  life  and  health. 
Here  dwells  content  from  day  to  day; 
So— let  the  great  world  go  its  way 


Uca.itiiiil  Things. 

Beautiful  faces  are  those  that  wear — 
It  matters  little  if  dark  or  fair- 
Whole-souled  honesty  printed  there. 

Beautiful  eyes  are  those  that  show, 

Like  crystal  panes  where  hearth  11  res  glow, 

Beautiful  thoughts  that  burn  below. 

Beautiful  lips  are  those  whose  words 
Leap  from  the  heart  like  songs  of  birds, 
Yet  whose  utterances  prudence  girds. 

Beautiful  hands  are  those  that  do 
Work  that  is  earnest,  brave  and  true, 
Moment  by  moment  the  long  day  through. 


Beautiful  lives  are  those  that  bless — 

Silent  rivers  and  happiness, 

Whose  hidden  fountains  few  may  guess. 


WALLS  OF  CORN  AND  OTHER  POEMS. 


Beautiful  feet  are  those  that  go 
On  timely  ministries  to  and  fro — 
Down  lowliest  ways,  if  God  wills  it  so. 

Beautiful  shoulders  are  those  that  bear 

Ceaseless  burdens  of  homely  care 

With  patient  grace  and  with  daily  prayer. 

Beautiful  lives  are  those  that  bless 

Silent  rivers  and  happiness, 

Whose  hidden  fountains  but  few  may  guess. 

Beautiful  twilight,  at  set  of  sun, 
Beautiful  goal  with  race  well  run, 
Beautiful  rest,  with  work  well  done. 

Beautiful  graves,  where  grasses  creep, 
Where  brown  leaves  fall,  where  drifts  lie  deep 
Over  worn  out  hand,— oh,  beautiful  sleep. 


Discontent. 

Herein  is  human  nature  most  perverse: 
We  spurn  the  gifts  that  lie  about  our  door, 

Tread  on  them  in  our  scorn,  and  madly  nurse 
A  gnawing  hunger  that  still  cries  for  more. 

And  this  for  mortals  all  life's  blessing  mars, 
Turning  to  bitterness  its  offered  sweet. 

We  climb  up  dizzy  crags  to  grasp  the  stars, 
While  unplucked  roses  bloom  about  our  feet. 

The  stars  are  out  of  reach;  the  slippery  steeps 
Prove  treacherous  footholds,  and  we  trip  and  fall. 

Crushed  are  the  roses;  disappointment  weeps 
O'er  bleeding  bruises:  and  that  ends  it  all. 


168         WALLS  OF  CORN  AND  OTHER  POK.MS. 

We  stretch  our  empty  arms  with  longing  sore, 
To  clasp  the  mocking  phantom  of  a  dream: 

We  pant  with  thirst  while  standing  on  a  shore 
Kissed  by  the  ripples  of  a  living  stream. 

From  sweet,  pure  waters  do  we  turn  aside. 

Lured  by  false  fountains  in  the  de.sert  gray: 
We  chase  a  vision  o'er  expanses  wide 

To  find  it  grow  more  distant,  day  by  day. 

Why  do  we  so?    Ojuld  we  but  learn  to  take, 
With  thankful  hearts,  the  blessing*  at  our  hand. 

To  drink  near  springs,  nor  chase  the  phantom  lake 
That  swiftly  vanishes  along  the  sand! 

Suppose  we  gain  our  quest;  suppose  we  taste- 
Aye,  even  drink  our  fill,  with  lips  afire- 
Repentant  leisure  treads  the  heels  of  haste: 
In  sad,  remorseful  tears  ends  fierce  desire. 

Life  is  to  short  to  waste  in  vain  pursuit 
Of  swift  delight  that  through  the  finger  slips, 

Or,  caught  and  held,  oft  proves  a  Dead  Sea  fruit, 
That  turns  to  bitter  ashes  on  the  lips. 


Gentle  Spring. 

These  are  signs  of  gentle  spring: 
Flocks  of  wild  geese  on  the  wing, 
Flying  in  a  broken  string; 

Brooks  that  tumble,  roar  and  rush, 
Sinking  drifts,  and  piles  of  slush, 
And  a  universal  mush. 


Woman  with  a  draggled 
Puddles  that  seem  bottomless, 
Roads  all  ditto—  such  a  mess! 


WALLS  OF  CORN  AND  OTHER  POEMS,  169 

Horses  flounder,  loaded  down; 
Swearing  driver — been  to  town — 
Curses,  plunges  -overthrown! 

Fancy  sleighs  for  sale  at  cost, 
Balmy  breezes,  nipping  frost, 
Wild  march  mornings,  tempest-tossed. 

Robins,  bluebirds,  sleet  and  snow, 
Icy  winds,  and  sunny  glow— 
What  comes  next  you  never  know. 

Sounds  of  coughs  and  choking  wheezes, 
And  of  loud,  spasmodic  sneezes, 
Mingle  with  tlie  straying  breezes. 

Handkerchiefs  are  bought  and  sold 

By  the  dozen,  I  am  told. 

Question — "  Have  you  had  your  cold  ?  " 

Come,  ye  singers,  rise  and  sing! 
Poets,  tune  your  every  string 
For  an  ode  to  gentle  spring. 


The  Sleeping  Village. 

The  village  sleeps;  the  moonbeams  fall, 
Pale,  still,  and  cold,  on  roof  and  wall, 

And  flood  the  empty  street. 
How  still!    The  dust  lies  all  unstirred; 
No  sound  of  rolling  wheels  is  heard, 

No  tread  of  passing  feet. 

Where  traffic  hurried  to  and  fro, 
Only  the  night-winds  come  and  go, 

Whirling  the  dead  leaves  by. 
The  cold  lake  laps  its  pebbled  shore; 
And  round  each  closely  bolted  door 
.  The  frost  creeps  silently. 


170  WALLS  OF  CORN  AND  OTHER  POEMS. 

The  village  sleeps — O  blessed  rest! 
With  hard  hands  folded  on  it-  hn  a-t. 

Lies  overburdened  Toil; 
Grief  smiles  in  dreams,  its  woe  forgot; 
Pale  want  forgets  its  dreary  lot; 

The  springs  of  Care  uncoil. 

The  fevers  that  infest  the  day 
Yield  to  the  night,  and  sink  away 

To  pulse  soft  and  even. 
E'en  Joy  is  still;  Love  nestles  deep 
In  clasping  arms,  whose  touch  makes  sleep 

A  calm  as  sweet  as  heaven. 

The  night  grows  deeper;  colder  falls 
The  moonlight  on  the  silent  walls; 

Still  creeps  the  stealthy  frost: 
And  deeper  grows  the  calm  of  rest 
In  throbbing  brain  and  troubled  breast 

By  day  so  passion-tost. 

O  blessings  priceless,  Night  and  Sleep! 
Did  never  close  the  eyes  that  weep; 

Did  struggle  never  cease; 
Did  ne'er  the  balm  of  Rest  come  down 
Upon  the  weary,  toiling  town — 

Then  death  were  sole  release. 


WALLS  OF  CORN  AND  OTHER  POEMS.  171 


A  Dirge. 

The  wind  of  autumn  blows, 

So  cold,  so  cold ; 

The  wind  of  autumn  blows, 

Dead  is  the  summer  rose, 

And  the  withered  grass  lies  rotting  on  the  mould. 

The  frost  creeps  round  the  door, 

So  still,  so  still; 

The  frost  creeps  round  the  door, 

The  cricket  sings  no  more, 

No  more  at  twilight  pleads  the  whip-po-wil. 

But  I  hear  the  owlet's  cry, 

Forlorn,  forlorn; 

I  hear  the  owlet's  cry, 

When  the  waning  moon  is  high, 

And  the  raccoon's  greedy  call  among  the  corn. 

I  mourn  the  summer  dead, 

So  soon,  so  soon; 

I  mourn  the  summer  dead, 

With  all  its  glory  fled, 

As  I  stand  beneath  the  frosty  waning  moon. 

And  I  think  how  life  is  going — 

So  fast,  so  fast. 

I  think  how  life  is  going, 

How  swift  its  tides  are  flowing, 

How  we  scarcely  hail  our  summer,  ere  'as  past. 


172  WALLS  OF  CORN  AND  OTHER  POEMS. 


The  Old  Stone  Quarry. 

Grown  with  grass  and  with  tangled  weeds, 
Where  the  blind  mole  hides  and  the  rabbit  feeds, 
And,  unmolested,  the  serpent  breeds. 

Edged  with  underwood,  newly  grown, 

Draped  with  the  cloak  that  the  years  have  thrown 

Round  the  broken  gaps  in  the  jagged  stone. 

It  was  opened — I  know  not  how  long  ago- 
Opened,  and  left  half-worked,  and  so 
In  this  ragged  hollow  the  rank  weeds  grow. 

Why  lies  it  idle,  this  beautiful  stone? 

Ho,  for  the  pjckaxe!    One  by  one 

Hew  out  these  blocks— here  is  work  undone. 

There  are  possible  towers  in  this  serpent's  den — 

Possible  homes  for  homeless  men. 

Who  shall  build  them?  and  where?  and  when? 

Must  they  lie  here  still,  unmarked,  unsought — 
Turrets  and  temples,  uncarved,  unwrought, 
Till  the  end  of  time?    'Tis  a  sorrowful  thought! 

All  through  the  heats  of  the  summer  hours, 
The  wild  bee  hums  in  the  unplucked  flowers 
That  creep  and  bloom  over  unbuilt  towers. 

As  I  sit  here,  perched  on  the  grass-grown  wall, 
Down  to  the  hollow  the  brown  leaves  fall, 
Little  by  little  covering  all. 

Sa  month  after  month,  and  year  after  year, 
The  rank  weeds  creep  and  the  leaves  turn  sere. 
And  a  thicker  mantle  is  weaving  here. 


WALLS  OF  CORN  AND  OTHER  POEMS.  173 

And  a,  day  may  corne  when  the  passer-by, 
Threading  the  underwood,  then  grown  high, 
Shall  see  but  a  hollow,  where  dead  leaves  lie. 

There  are  human  souls  that  seem  to  me 
Like  this  unwrought  stone — for  all  you  see — 
Is  a  shapeless  quarry  of  what  might  be, 

Lying  idle,  and  overgrown 

With  tangled  weeds,  like  this  beautiful  stone — 

Possible  work  left  undone, 

Possible  victories  left  unwon. 

And  that  is  a  waste  that  is  worse  than  this; 
Sharper  the  edge  of  the  hidden  abyss, 
Deadlier  serpents  crawl  and  hiss. 

And  a  day  shall  come  when  the  desolate  scene, 
Though  scanned  by  eyes  that  are  close  and  keen, 
Shall  show  no  trace  of  its  "  might  have  been.-',' 


Departed. 

I  sat  one  day  at  the  door  of  a  tomb, 

In  from  the  stir  of  the  busy  street, 
I  entered  a  house,  in  whose  every  room 

Were  viewless  prints  of  departed  feet. 

All  was  familiar;  the  light  shone  through 
On  books  and  tables,  on  pictured  wall; 

They  were  well  known  objects  that  met  my  view, 
Yet  a  shadowy  change  was  over  them  all. 

With  aching  heart  and  with  starting  tear, 

I  longed  for  glances  I  did  not  meet, 
Fora  woman's  voice  that  I  did  not  hear, 

For  a  loving  hand-clasp,  warm  and  sweet. 


174  WALLS  OF  CORN  AND  OTHER  POEMS. 

Radiant  eyes  where  the  true  heart  shone; 

Light  feet  speeding  at  duty's  call; 
Hands  so  busy: — (their  work  is  done) 

Tongue  cannot  tell  how  I  mis*  tlu-m  all. 

I  miss  them  all;  and  I  miss  as  well 
The  household  darling,  the  maiden  mild; 

Her  music  that  charmed  with  its  magic  spell: 
The  winsome  ways  of  a  happy  child. 

O  earnest  matron!  O  maiden  sweet. 

My  heart  would  achs  and  tb.3  ta.irs  would  come, 
As  I  turned  again  to  the  busy  street, 

Saying  but  little— for  grief  is  duml>. 


Night  and  Sleep. 

The  night  is  long,  for  I  cannot  sleep. 

No  midnight  sorrow  makes  me  weep, 

But  I  "count  a  hundred"  and  then  "count  two," 

And  no  sort  of  use— for  its  wild  tattoo 

My  pulse  keeps  beating.    There  must  be 

Something  uncommon  that's  ail  ing  me. 

There's  a  rush  and  a  tramp  through  my  throbbing  brain; 
Such  wonderful  thoughts— in  endless  train- 
Come  in  crowds,  and,  link  into  link, 
They  tangle  so,  while  I  think  and  think! 
Now  they  march  to  some  doleful  rhyme, 
And  then  with  dizzying  step  keep  time. 

How  loud  the  clock  goes  !  tick,  and  tick, 
With  a  little  ring  after  every  click; 
And  now  it  strikes— the  hour  is  one— 
Ah  me,  what  a  dolefully  solemn  tone! 
Strange  as  it  seems,  I  truly  say 
That  I  haven't  heard  it  before,  to-day. 


WALLS  OF  CORN  AND  OTHER  POEMS.  175 

There's  a  cricket  singing  shrill  and  long- 
Was  ever  a  cricket  with  voice  so  strong? 
Without,  the  night  is  deep  and  still; 
The  owl  is  not  hooting  on  the  hill, 
No  low  of  kine,  no  bleat  of  flock, 
Only  the  cricket,  and  ticking  clock! 

The  moon  pours  in  with  a  cold  white  gleam 
Through  the  window  panes,  a  steady  stream; 
Slowly,  slowly,  it  crosses  the  floor, 
And  lies  in  white  at  the  farther  door, 
I  fancy  a  ghost  with  silent  feet 
Crossing  the  room  in  a  winding  sheet! 

Oh,  blessings  priceless,  Night  and  Sleep! 

Did  never  close  the  eyes  that  weep— 

In  the  weary  brain,  where  thoughts  are  ground, 

Did  a  ceaseless  wheel  go  round  and  round 

With  never  a  pause  for  sleep— Ah  me, 

How  wearily  long  one's  life  would  be! 

The  clock  strikes  three,  and  then  ticks  lower; 
The  feverish  thoughts  come  slow,  and  slower; 
My  pulses  fall  to  temperate  time; 
Drowsily  floats  the  lazy  rhyme; 
Soothing  visions  my  senses  steep  — 
I  think— I  think— I'm  going  to  sleep. 


176  WALLS  OF  CORN  AND  OTHER  POEMS. 


Birthday  Greeting. 

To  General  M.  Breyman,  on  His  Birthday. 
Another  year,  and  still  another  May: 

Think  not,  O  friend,  that  ever  I  forget — 
Though  doubtful  oft  of  my  own  onward  way— 
Where  are  thy  mile  stories  set. 

Not  many  more,  you  say.    The  day  declines: 

The  long,  eventful  journey  nears  its  close, 
The  misty  sunbeams  fall  in  slanting  lines 
Though  seas  of  gold  and  rose. 

Gentle  the  down-hill  slope.    Love  walks  beside, 

With  tender  words  and  with  caresses  >weet, 
Folds  thee  in  clasping  arms,  lest  ill  betide, 
Supports  thy  falling  feet. 

The  eve  draws  on;  the  sett  ing  sun  hangs  low; 

Cometh  the  peaceful  twilight,  dim  and  gray: 
Yet  hope  is  thine,  and  Faith  in  whisper  low, 
Tells  of  a  brighter  day. 

Some  token  of  true  friendship  would  I  bring, 

But  neither  gold  nor  silver  shall  it  be. 
Accept,  dear  friend,  the  little  song  I  sing — 
My  birthday  gift  to  thee. 


WALLS  OF  CORN  AND  OTHER  POEMS.  177 


Iii  the  Caboose 

'•Train  delayed?  and  what's  to  say  ?" 

•'Blocked  by  last/night's  snow  they  say." 

Seven  hours  or  so  to  wait; 

Well,  that's  pleasant!  but  there's  the  freight. 

Depot  loating  no  one  fancies, 

We'll  try  the  caboose  and  take  our  chances. 

Cool  this  morning  in  Watertown, 
Somewhat  frosty — mercury  down; 
Enter  caboose — roaring  fire, 
With  never  an  air-hole;  heat  so  dire 
That  we  shrivel  and  pant;  we  are  roasted  th  rough- 
Outside,  thermometer  thirty-two. 

We  start  with  a  jerk  and  suddenly  stop. 
•'What's  broke?"  says  one;  another  "What's  up?", 
"Oh,  nothing,''  they  answer,  "That's  our  way: 
You  must  stand  the  jerking,  sorry  to  say." 
We  "stand  it"  with  oft  this  painful  thought: 
Are  our  heads  on  yet,  or  are  they  not? 

Comrades  in  misery— let  me  see; 
Girl  like  a  statue  opposite  me; 
Rack  and  forth  the  others  jostle- 
She  never  winks,  nor  moves  a  muscle; 
See  her,  as  she  sits  there  now; 
She's  "well balanced,"  anyhow. 

Woman  in  trouble,  tearful  eyes, 

Sits  by  the  window,  softly  cries, 

Pity— for  griefs  we  may  not  know, 

For  breasts  that  ache,  for  tears  that  now, 

Though  we  know  not  why.     Her  eyelids  red 

Tell  a  sorrowful  tale — some  hope  is  dead. 


178  WALLS  OF  CORN  AND  OTHER  POEMS. 

Man  who  follows  the  Golden  Rule, 
And  lends  his  papers— a  pocket  full. 
Has  a  blank  book — once  in  a  minute 
I  I;i-  an  idea,  and  writes  it  in  it. 
Guess  him?    Yes,  of  course  lean, 
He's  a— well— a  newspaper  man. 

Blue-eyed  fairy,  wrapped  in  fur; 
Sweet  young  mother  tending  her. 
Fairy  thinks  it's  "awful  far," 
Wants  to  get  off  this  "naughty  car." 
So  do  we,  young  golden-hair: 
All  this  crowd  are  with  you  there! 


Crazy  Nell. 

A  bent  and  stooping  spine, 
A  broken  staff,  with  twine 

Mended  well: 
A  bundle  on  a  crook, 
A  mild,  yet  gentle  look, 
And  a  nose  so  sharp  and  thin 
That  it  almost  pierced  the  skin 

Crazy  Nell! 

Coming  often  to  our  door. 
Twenty  years  ago,  or  more, 

Crazy  Nell, 

With  her  bundle  and  her  staff, 
And  her  melancholy  laugh, 
Begged  a  humble  place  to  lie- 
Soft  or  hard— low  or  high, 

It  was  well. 

How  we  shuddered — how  we  cried 
And  in  corners  shrank  to  hide, 
In  our  fear. 


WALLS  OF  CORN  AND  OTHER  POEMS. 

For  the  thin  and  tattered  rags, 
As  they  hung  in  shreds  and  tags, 
And  the  bundle  and  the  staff, 
And  the  sad  and  broken  laugh, 
Wera  so  queer. 

But  as  we  oldergrew, 
We  learned  to  pity,  too, 

Crazy  Nell; 

For,  in  tender  voice  and  low, 
Did  our  mother  tell  us  how 

Ere  she  fell 
Into  overtaking  sin 
This  ghostly  wreck  had  been 

A  beauty  and  a  belle. 

A  face  so  fair  and  sweet, 
Was  not  seen  upon  the  street, 

Anywhere, 

Arid  her  blue  eyes  smiled  for  all, 
From  between  a  parted  fall 

Of  golden  hair, 

Where  now  the  gray  locks  thin 
Straggled  to  the  wrinkled  chin, 

Sharp  and  spare. 

'Twas  the  tale  so  often  told 
In  the  ears  of  young  and  old  - 

For  she  fell, 
But,  amid  her  suffering, 
And  with  reason  tottering, 

Gentle  Nell, 

Who  beguiled  with  foul  deceit, 
And  who  tripped  her  careless  feet, 

Would  never  tell. 

So  she  bore  it  all  alone, 
Uutil  reason  from  her  throne 
Crumbled  down: 


WALLS  OF  CORN  AND  OTHKR  I'OKMS. 


And  her  bundle  and  her  staff 
Were  the  cruel  sport  and  laugh 

Of  the  clown. 

As  she  wandered,  bent  and  old, 
And  sought  the  pity  cold 

Of  the  town . 

But  one  cold  November  dayT 
She  was  found  beside  the  way 

Crazy  Nell; 

With  her  head  upon  the  sand. 
And  her  staff  within  her  hand, 

And  the  bell, 

In  the  steeple  by  the  river. 
With  its  mournful  sob  and  quiver, 

Tolled  her  knell. 

And  they  laid  her  down  below, 
Where  the  summer  grasses  grow. 

In  the  dell, 

Who  shall  judge  her  so  and  so. 
Lying  there,  witli  head  so  low? 

Who  shall  tell 
That  the  play  is  ended  so? 
Only  'tis  the  last  we  know 

Of  Crazy  Nell. 


WALLS  OF  CORN  AND  OTHER  POEMS.  181 


Agassiz. 

Let  the  earth  mourn.    A  lover  and  ;i  child 
Of  the  great  mother  sleeps  his  last  long  sleep, 

Let  her  winds  wail  in  voices  wierd  and  wild: 
Let  sobs  disturb  the  bosom  of  the  deep. 

Nature's  interpreter — who  now  shall  find 
And  bring  to  light  the  meaning  of  her  speech  ? 

Who  now  shall  stand  with  mien  serene  and  kind, 
And  hold  her  lore  within  our  easy  reach  ? 

He  sought  through  sunless  cares  on  mountains  hoar, 
The  foot  prints  of  the  ages,  blurred  and  dim; 

And  ocean  chambers,  deep  beneath  the  roar 
Of  wind  and  wave,  unrolled  their  scroll  to  him. 

He  saw  and  read  the  records,  then  he  turned 
And  spoke  to  us  with  cheek  and  lips  aglow. 

We  heard  with  awe,  our  hearts  within  us  burned — 
Such  wondez's  had  God  written  long  ago! 

The  earthjs  His,  He  made  it:  and  its  leaves 
Who  so  by  patient  scanning  clearly  reads, 

Gathers  to  Wisdom's  store-house  golden  sheaves, 
Shall  we  not  own  him  prophet  of  our  needs  V 

Philosopher,  such  prophet,  then,  wast  thou  ! 

Yet  is  thy  mantle  fallen;  who  shall  dare 
Take  up  the  radiant  garment  V    Who  shall  now 

Alike  thy  honors  and  thy  burdens  bear? 


182  \VALLS  OF  CORN  AND  OTHER  POKMS. 


An  Evening  Monologue. 

Friend  of  my  soul,  sit  by  me 

In  this  evening  calm,  with  the  sun  gone  down. 
While  the  wide  west  glows  like  a  crimson  sea, 

Flooding  with  splendor  the  fields  and  the  town. 

Talk  if  you  will,  or  idly  dream, 

With  your  gaze  on  the  track  of  the  vanished  sun. 
Our  thoughts  shall  blend  though  silent  the  stream; 

Speech  and  silence  to  us  are  one. 

Up  from  the  south  comes  a  breath  of  spring; 

It  flutters  your  beard  and  lifts  your  hair: 
Yonder  a  robin,  with  folded  wing, 

Sits  and  sings  in  the  branches  bare. 

Sweet  hour  of  peace!    On  the  prairies  brown, 
On  the  quiet  homestead's  dun-gray  walls, 

On  the  silent  lanes,  on  the  distant  town, 
Like  a  benediction  the  twilight  falls. 

Slowly,  softly,  the  roseate  glow 

Pales,  yet  lingers;  the  robin's  tune 
Is  hushed  to  silence;  a  silver  bow 

Hangs  on  high — 'tis  the  new  white  moon. 

The  moments  pass.    See  that  moving  gleam! 

Nearer  it  comes,  swift,  weirdly  bright; 
And  a  train,  life-laden,  with  eerie  scream, 

Sweeps  down  the  valley  into  the  night. 

The  moments  pass.  We  are  wrapped  about 
With  thickening  shadows;  one  by  one, 

In  the  deep,  dark  blue,  the  stars  shine  out. 
Night  and  silence— the  day  is  done. 


WALLS  OF  CORN  AND  OTHER  POEMS. 

Oft  have  we  watched  the'  daylight  fade, 
Rut  a  time  must  come  we  know — the  last. 

And  the  sweep  of  years  will  not  be  stayed; 
The  on-coming  night  is  hastening  fast. 

Once,  then,  to  watch  while  the  darkness  creeps, 
And  you  or  I— oh!  which  shall  it  be? — 

Must  wake  and  weep  while  the  other  sleeps. 
Old  and  alone— ah,  me!  ah,  me! 


Trouble. 

If  an  evil  can  be  cured, 

Set  thyself  to  cure  it; 

If  'tis  but  to  be  endured, 

Bravely,  then,  endure  it. 

Weak  complaint  and  peevish  fret 

Never  banished  trouble  yet: — 

They  do  but  insure  it. 

Grief  hast  thou,  full  hardly  borne- 
Time  hath  touch  of  healing. 
Patience,  yet  may  rays  of  morn 
Through  the  night  come  stealing. 
Trouble  yet  may  prove  a  friend, 
Stern,  yet  faithful,  in  the  end, 
Highest  use  revealing. 

Dost  thou,  sad-eyed  passer-by, 
Bear  a  living  sorrow — 
Secret  pain  that  may  not  cry- 
May  no  pity  borrow? 
While  thy  tears  in  darkness  flow, 
Seest  thou  no  gleams  that  show 
Glimpse  of  bright  to-morrow? 


1*4  WALLS  OF  CORN  AND  OTHER  POEMS. 

Patience  yet;  tliou  hopeless  om>: 

With  thy  best  endeavor 

Give  thy  life.    'Tis  lightly  spun  — 

Lightest  touch  may  sever. 

At  the  last  are  rest  and  peace, 

Serest  trouble's  calm  surcease  — 

Grief  is  not  forever. 


Then  and  Now. 

Bleak,  rugged,  hills,  o'er  which  the  winter  snow- 
In  wild  gusts  swept: 

A  sweet,  green  vale,  a  calm  lake,  lying  low, 
Where  osiers  dipt; 

A  clear,  cool  spring,  whose  trickling  overflow, 
Through  tall  grass  crept. 

There  were  some  hearts  that  love  me.     Till  my  own 

Shall  cease  to  beat. 
Whether  I  tread  smooth  ways,  or  jagged  stout- 

With  bleeding  feet, 
I  still  shall  hold  them  precious  (love  alone 

Can  make  life  sweet.) 

Long  years  have  fled.    Still  stand,  deep  scarred  and  hoar. 

The  wind  swept  heights; 
Still  flows  the  spring,  where  parched  lips,  thirsting  sore. 

Quaff  deep  delights: 
Still  sleeps  the  lake,  by  moonbeams  silvered  o'er 

On  summer  nights. 

All  these  remain:  scarce  changed  the  peaceful  scene, 

Yet  men  grow  old. 
Locks  that  were  dark  are  touched  with  t'ro,ty  sheen; 

Have  hearts  grown  cold? 
To  know  some  few  have  kept  the  old  love  green — 

Twere  joy  untold. 


WALLS  OF  CORN  AND  OTHER  POEMS. 


A  Country  Home. 

A  nook  among  the  hills,  a  little  farm. 

Whose  fertile  acres  yield  us  daily  bread: 
A  homely,  low-browed  dwelling,  snug  and  warm. 

\Y  it  h  wide  blue  skies  hung  overhead. 

No  costly  splendor  here  no  gilded  glow; 

No  clear  bought  pictures  hang  upon  the  walls; 
But  bright  and  happy  faces  corne  and  go, 

And  through  the  windows  God's-sweet  sunshine  falls. 

We  are  not  rich  in  heaps  of  hoarded  gold: 
We  are  not  poor,  for  we  can  keep  at  bay 

The  poor  man's  hunting  spectres,  want  and  cold, 
Can  keep  from  owing  debts  we  cannot  pay. 

With  wholesome  plenty  is  our  table  spread, 
With  genial  comfort  glows  our  evening  fire: 

The  tierce  night  winds  may  battle  overhead  — 
Safe  in  our  shelter,  though  strife  be  dire. 

When  days  grow  long,  and  winter's  storms  are  o'er, 
Here  come  the  first  birds  of  the  early  spring, 

And  build  their  cunning  nests  beside  the  door, 
Teaching  sweet  lessons  as  they  work  and  sing. 

Here  come  our  friends— a  dear  and  cherished  few- 
Dearer,  perchance,  than  if  they  numbered  more: 

We  greet  them  with  a  hand-clasp  warm  and  true, 
And  give  them  of  the  best  we  have  in  store. 

What  though  the  rooms  be  small,  and  low  the  roof  ? 

What  though  we  can  but  offer  simple  fare'? 
It  matters  not:  so  friendships  warp  and  woof 

Are  spun  of  gold,  for  these  we  need  not  care 


WALLS  OF  CORN  AND  OTHER  POEMS. 


We  hear  the  great  world  surging  likea-ea. 

But  the  loud  roar  of  winds  and  waves  at  war. 
Subdued  by  distance,  comes  melodiously. 

A  soft  and  gentle  murmur,  faint  and  far. 

We  see  the  small  go  up,  the  great  come  down. 

And  bless  the  peaceful  safety  of  our  lot. 
The  broken  scepter  and  the  toppling  crown, 

And  crash  of  falling  thrones— these  shake  us  not. 

We  have  some  weary  toil  to  struggle  through, 
Some  trials,  that  we  bravely  strive  to  meet: 

We  have  our  sorrows,  as  all  mortals  do: 
We  have  our  joys,  too,  pure,  and  calm,  and  sweet. 

Is  such  a  life  too  even  in  its  flow? 

Too  silent,  calm,  too  barren  of  event? 
Its  very  joys  to  still?    I  do  not  know: 

I  think  he  conquers  all  who  wins  content. 


Found — Not  Too   I. ate. 

From  yonder  church  a  wedding 
Came  forth  one  day, 
Only  in  this  particular- 
It  was  late  in  the  day; 
For  the  locks  of  the  bride  and  bridegroom 
Were  streaked  with  gray. 

Their  youth  lay  far  behind  them; 

Alone  had  tried 

The  up-grades  of  life's  mountain, 

This  groom  and  bride. 

They  now  clasp  hands  together 

On  the  downhill  side. 


WALLS  OF  CORN  AND  OTHER  POEMS.  187 

Uroadly  the  stupid  wondered; 

Yet,  still  and  calm, 

Sweet  peace  held  close  above  them 

Her  boughs  of  palm. 

And  touched  the  wounds  of  old  battles 

With  healing  balm. 

A  year  had  passed.    At  nightfall 
I  saw  them  stand 

At  the  door  of  a  vine-wreathed  cottage — 
Hand  held  in  hand- 
While  the  tides  of  a  crimson  sunset 
O'erflowed  the  land. 

The  crimson  ebbed;  the  shadows 

Stole  down  the  dell; 

With  its  peaceful  benediction, 

The  twilight  fell, 

And  the  faint,  sweet  tone  came  floating 

Of  a  far-off  bell. 

I  listened,  and  heard  a  sentence 

With  meaning  great. 

The  wife  was  whispering  softly, 

"  The  perfect  mate, 

After  long  years  of  waiting, 

Found — not  too  late." 


WALLS  OF  CORN  AND  OTHER  POK.MS. 


A  Bride  of  a  Day. 


Oh!  sing  a  >"iiir;  in  low.  xit'l 
,Tender,  and  sweet,  in  sid 
For  her  who  lies  .ill  pallid,  still. 
In  her  last  garment^  clad. 

A  fair  young  bride  of  but  a  day  — 
Sing  low,  sing  soft  and  low)  — 

And  yet.  and  yet  her  bed  must  be 
1'nder  the  drifting  snow. 

I'lider  the  drifting  snow—  ah,  me!- 

To  lie  in  her  frozen  sleep. 
While  love,  bereft,  with  empty  arm-. 

Is  left  to  wake  and  weep. 

Butyestermorn.  how  bright  her  smile! 

How  sort  the  blush  that  ro.se, 
Mantling  the  white  of  neck  and  brow, 

As  sunset  tints  the  .snows. 

With  tender  light  her  dark  eyes  shone; 

Sweet  was  the  roseate  glow: 
Alas!  how  little  thought  we  then, 

Her  sun  had  dipped  so  low. 

Through  all  the  hours  one  mourner  sits, 

Watching  her  pulseless  i\sst, 
With  dumb,  white  lips  and  hopeless  look, 

And  head  bowed  on  his  brea>i  . 

Ah,  death!  thy  ways  are  dark  and  st  range 

Parsing  age  and  sorrow  by, 
While  youth  and  joy  along  thy  track 

All  scathed  and  blasted  lie. 


WALLS  OF  CORN  AN?D  OTHER  POEMS.  189 


Weighing  the  World. 

I  weighed  the  world  to-day— its  golden  treasure, 
Its  gleam  and  glitter,  all  its  splendid  show, 

Its  pride,  its  fame— in  most  unstinted  measure- 
All  its  allurements  that  do  tempt  me  so. 

I  put  them  in  A  balance,  all  together, 
Against  one  heart— but  one,  yet  surely  mine. 

I  wished  for  once  to  know  for  certain  whether 
This  way,  or  that  way,  would  the  scales  incline. 

Then  slowly  rose  the  piled-up,  shining  masses, 
As  slowly,  surely,  did  that  one  thing  fall. 

So  I  have  weighed;  and  thus  the  verdict  passes: 
I  find  that  one  true  heart  is  worth  them  all. 


A  Dream. 

1  dreamed  a  dream  in  a  winter  night, 
When  sullen  winds  blew  about  the  door, 

And  over  the  snow  fields,  cold  and  white, 
And  through  the  forest  with  muflled  roar. 

Through  all  the  wintry  sounds,  I  heard 

The  rustle  of  a  tiny  wing: 
And  wildly  carrolled  a  dear  brown  bird— 

The  bird  that  sings  at  the  gates  of  spring. 

My  pulses  leaped  with  a  sudden  thrill! 

Was  the  winter  gone?    I  thought  in  my  sleep  — 
Had  spring  come  in  with  that  silvery  trill? 

Would  storms  no  longer  their  wassails  keep? 

I  woke — and  there  came,  in  frosty  bars, 
The  light  of  a  pale  and  gloomy  moon, 

And  the  far,  faint  twinkle  of  the  misty  stars; 
And  the  cold  winds  chanted  their  midnight  tune. 


190  WALLS  OF  CORN  AND  OTHER  POEMS. 

Gone  was  the  rustle  of  tiny  wing; 

Silent  the  song  of  the  dear  brown  bird: 
Closely  barred  stood  the  gates  of  spring, 

And  the  chant  of  the  wind  was  all  I  heard. 

So  the  pilgrim  dreams;  and  he  hears  afar 
The  harps  of  gold;  and  the  radiant  gleam 

Comes  flashing  through  the  gates  ajar 
Of  the  sea  of  glass,  and  the  crystal  stream. 

But  he  wakes:  and  closed  are  the  pearly  gates; 

Gone  is  the  music,  the  flash  and  gleam; 
But  he  goes  his  way,  and  in  patience  waits — 

He  goes  his  way,  but  keeps  his  dream  1 


Days  We  Remember. 

Days  that  glide  in  an  even  rhyme 

To  which  our  feet  keep  steady  time — 

Be  they  in  May  or  December;— 

Days  when  life  is  a  summer  sea, 

Whereon  lie  ships  rocked  dreamily; 

Days  when  an  easy  round  of  care, 

Is  all  the  load  that  our  shoulders  bear: 

Days  that  a  calm  succession  keep 

Of  peaceful  labor  and  peaceful  sleep; 

Days  that  serenely  slip  away, 

With  little  of  sorrow,  yet  scarcely  gay; — 

Are  not  the  days  that  we  remember. 

Days  that  are  fraught  with  throbs  of  bliss, 

With  love's  caress,  with  love's  close  kiss  - 

Be  they  in  May  or  December; — 

Days  when  rush  through  our  wilderness 

Whelming  torrents  of  happiness; 

Days  when  the  heart,  in  its  joyous  swell, 

Beats  and  throbs  like  a  festive  bell; 


WALLS  OF  CORN  AND  OTHER  POEMS. 


And  days,  oh!  days  when  we  sit  alone 
With  dumb,  white  lips  that  make  no  moan, 
By  close-sealed  vaults,  whose  chambers  cold 
Our  lovliest,  dearest  treasures  hold; 
When,  as  the  heavy  hours  drag  by, 
We  long— and  long  in  vain — to  die; — 
These  are  the  days  that  we  remember. 


On  the  Prairie. 

Out  on  the  prairie— a  shrieking  storm! 

How  the  pitiless  cold,  driven  from  homes  and  firesides  warm, 

In  its  terrible  hold, 

Here  grapples  and  grips  with  strength  untold! 

Miles  and  miles,  and  nothing  in  sight, 

Only  sweeps  of  snow — 

That  under  the  dust  of  the  gathering  night, 

Now  dimmer  grow— breasting  the  winds  that  fiercely  blow. 

Not  a  friendly  light,  not  a  sheltering  tree, 

On  the  prairie's  breast. 

And  my  failing  feet  shrink  under  me! 

I  am  heavy — oppressed 

With  a  drowsy  weight;  I  must  stop  and  rest. 

No,  I  can  not  go  on!    Here  I  lay  me  down, 

While  the  storm  sweeps  by: 

Press  on,  if  you  can,  to  the  sheltering  town; 

In  peace  let  me  lie. 

I  am  not  cold  .  .  .  only  sleepy  .  .  .  good-by. 


!•>_'  WALLS  OF  CORN   AND  OTHER  POEMS. 


The  Old  Farmhouse. 

A  crystal  spring,  a  sunny  hill, 
A  gray  old  house  with  mossy  sill. 

Plemmed  in  by  orchard  trer>. 
With  massive  trunks  of  age  untold, 
Whose  luscious  fruits,  like  mounds  of  gold 
When  autumn  nights  grow  crisp  and  cold, 

Lay  heaped  about  then-  knees. 

And  when  the  trees,  bare,  gaunt  and  grim, 
Tnvsing  aloft  each  naked  limb, 

Breasted  the  sleety  rain: 

When  the  summer  sounds  were  heard  no  more, 
When  birds  had  sought  a  southern  shore, 
When  flowers  lay  dead  about  the  door, 

And  winter  reigned  again: 

Then  met  the  household  baud  beside 
A  clean  swept  hearth,  a  chimney  wide, 

Where  roared  a  maple  tire. 
When  all  the  streams  were  fettered  fast, 
When  fiercely  blew  the  wintry  blast, 
And  clouds  of  snow  went  whirling  past. 

The  logs  were  piled  the  higher. 

How  fondly  memory  recalls 
The  cheer  within  those  old  gray  walls, 
Beside  that  shining  hearth. 

0  peaceful  scene  of  calm  content! 
Where  happy  faces  came  and  went, 
And  heart  with  heart  was  closely  blent, 

In  sadness  as  in  mirth! 

1  see  them  all:  the  aged  sire 

Deep  in  some  book;  the  glowing  fire 
Gleams  on  his  silver  hair. 


WALLS  OF  CORN  AND  OTHER  POEMS. 


The  mother  knits;  her  loving  eye 
Smiles  on  the  children  flitting  by; 
Her  needles,  clicking  as  they  fly, 
Tell  of  her  household  care. 

A  group  of  stalwart  boys  I  see, 
Brimful  of  mirth — as  boys  will  be- 
When  evening  tasks  were  done: 
And— least  of  all — a  little  maid, 
Her  small  head  crowned  with  auburn  braid, 
Who,  when  the  merry  games  were  played, 
Was  foremost  in  the  fun. 

How  gay  we  were!  what  songs  we  sang, 
Till  the  old  walls  with  echoes  rang, 

While  the  wind  roared  without. 
Again  we  sat,  wild-eyed  and  pale, 
And  listened  to  some  ancient  tale- 
How  witches  rode  upon  the  gale, 

Or  white  ghosts  roamed  about. 

'Twas  long  ago;  those  days  are  o'er: 
I  hear  those  songs  no  more,  no  more, 

Yet  listen  while  I  weep. 
Time  rules  us  all.    No  joys  abide. 
That  household  band  is  scattered  wide, 
And  some  lie  on  the  green  hillside, 

Wrapped  in  a  dreamless  sleep. 


\V.\LLS  OF  CORN  AND  OTHER  POKMs. 


Friends  that  I  Used  to  Know. 

The  storm  of  the  day  is  past; 

The  rain  has  a  fainter  sound, 
Yet  low-hung  clouds  theirmisty  skirts 

Trail  over  the  sodden  ground. 

The  heavy  twilight  falls: 

The  clouds  trail  more  and  more. 
And  the  early  darkness  stealthily  creeps 

Up  to  the  farmhouse  door. 

I  sit,  in  the  gathering  night, 

By  the  flre — it  is  burning  low-- 
And  think,  with  a  longing  akin  to  pain, 

Of  the  friends  that  I  used  to  know. 

And  a  thrilling  vision  sweeps 
Through  the  chambers  of  my  brain: 

Gone  are  the  mist,  the  darkening  room, 
And  the  prairies  soaked  with  rain. 

1  see  the  friends  I  love, 

( I  shall  love  them  evermore  ) 
And  I  look  in  their  eyes  and  clasp  their  ha  ml-, 

Beneath  a  vine-wreathed  door, 

Yonder  are  the  wood-crowned  hills, 

Flaming  with  gold  and  red; 
I  hear  the  brawl  of  a  fretting  brook, 

Swollen  high  in  its  rocky  bed. 

The  orchard,  the  willow  hedge, 
The  pasture  with  cows,  and  the  well. 

The  giant  hickory  near  the  gate, 
On  guard,  like  a  sentinel. 


WALLS  OF  CORN  AND  OTHER  POEMS. 


I  see  all  these,  as  I  stand 

In  the  autumn's  sunset  glow, 
And  talk  and  listen,  with  throbbing  heart, 

To  the  friends  I  used  to  know. 

I  start— and  the  vision  fades, 

The  fire  is  dead,  and  the  light 
Is  gone  from  the  dripping  and  darkened  panes: 

I  sit  alone  in  the  night. 


No  Such  Thing  As  Love. 

"  There's  no  such  thing  as  love."    So  said 

A  flippant  sneerer  whom  1  met  one  day;— 
And  yet  a  child  sat  at  her  feet  and  played, 
And  a  sweet  babe  upon  her  bosom  lay. 

Greatly  I  wondered.    "  No  such  thing  as  love  ? 
Then  what  are  these  ?  "    Her  thin  lip  curled. 
41  These?    These  are  incidents.    Your  words  but  prove 
Your  ignorance.     You  do  not  know  the  world. 

•"  You  wonder  why  I  wed  ?"    Still  curled  her  lip; 

Still  flushed  her  dark  eye  with  a  bitter  scorn;— 
<(  Why,  1  am  a  woman — so  obey  the  whip 

That  swings  it  lash  above  all  women  born. 

*'  It  is  our  fate.    Let  one  dare  disobey, 

The  whole  world  shun  her.    Let  her  dare  to  tread 
In  her  own  right,  her  independent  way, 
Men  pelt  her  with  this  word  of  scorn:  old  maid. 

<(  Speak  common  sense.    Don't  taJk  of  love  to  me, 

'Tis  sickening — this  stuff  that  poets  sing. 
You  marry,  you  have  filled  your  destiny; 
But  love — I  tell  you  there  is  no  such  thing." 


WALLS  OF  CORN  AND  OTHER  POEMS. 


Sadly  I  left  her.  sadly  I  went  my  way: 
And  then  I  met  another— it  was  you. 

Had  I  believed  her?    Well,  I  cannot  say: 
But  now  I  know  she  did  not  tell  me  true. 


My  Stalk  of  Corn. 

Just  a  single  stalk  of  com. 

Nothing  more; 
Was  there  ever  a  stalk  of  corn 

Cherished  so  before:" 

On  the  window,  where  the  sun 

Shines  at  noon. 
And  at  eve,  the  tender  light 

Of  the  moon. 

Half  a  pint  or  so  of  soil- 
Hardly  that, 

Half  enough  to  till  the  cro\\n 
Of  baby's  hat. 

Tli is  it  has  to  feed  its  life; 

Tli is  is  all. 
Yet  I  love  this  stalk  of  corn 

Best  of  all. 

Best  of  all  my  pets  in  green 

Thou  a  vine, 
By  geraniums  scented  sweet, 

Doth  entwine. 

And  I  pet  it  tenderly, 

This  stalk  of  corn— 
Turn  it  kindly  toward  the  pane 

Every  morn. 


WALLS  OF  CORN  AND  OTHER  POEMS. 


How  it  thanks  me  for  its  life, 

How  it  grows! 
In  such  thrift,  its  gratitude 

How  it  shows. 

Still  I  watch  and  water  it, 

Though  I  know, 
The  slender  store  of  food  it  has 

Is  wasting  slow. 

Never  shall  the  breezes  wane 

Its  yellow  haii- 
Never  tassle  crown  its  top, 

Nor  golden  ear. 

Just  so  much  it  has  to  feed, 

Then  must  die; 
Who  knows  but  that  it  may  be  so 

With  you  or  I? 

We  know  not  our  stock  of  life, 

Great  or  small; 
But  the  one  who  keepeth  us 

Knoweth  all. 

We  live  on,  a  careless  life, 

Or  fiercely  toil. 
While  our  only  store  may  be 

Half  a  pint  of  soil. 

Let  us,  like  this  stalk  of  corn, 

Do  our  best, 
And  to  him  who  loveth  us 

Leave  the  rest. 


WALLS  OF  CORN  AND  OTHER  POEMS. 


The  Nation's  Patient. 

••Out  of  danger,"  the  doc- tors  -ay: 

The  battle  with  Death  is  won. 
So  millions  of  hearts  are  glad  to-day. 
And  millions  of  lips  thank  God  as  they  pray, 

At  the  going  down  of  the  sun. 

Through  terrible  days  of  doubt  and  gloom, 

Through  nights  of  fear  and  dread, 
All  hearts  were  turned  toward  that  silent  room, 
Where  Destiny  wrought  in  her  paux-h-ss  loom, 

By  one  brave  sufferer's  bed. 

A  nation's  t'at<-  \va>  tin-  net.  she  wove, 

With  shuttle  stained  bloody  red; 
And  a  nation  waited  in  trembling  love — 
Some  turn  of  the  beam  the  strength  should  prove 

Of  one  nigh  severed  thread. 

It  will  not  break!    Speed  the  tidings  forth! 

Though  silken,  'tis  wondrous  strong. 
It  has  drawn  together  the  South  and  the  Nort  li— 
So  much  to  the  Land  one  life  is  worth; 

May  that  life  be  happy  and  long. 

They  have  grieved  together,  they  join  to-day 

In  a  glad  thanksgiving  hymn, 
Who  have  met  erewhile  in  the  deadly  fray — 
And  oh!  may  the  fellowship  live  for  aye, 

That  was  born  in  that  chamber  dim. 

We  prize  the  prompt,  full  sympathy 

Which  from  other  lands  comes  in: 
Our  grief  has  waked  beyond  the  sea, 
Great  throbs  of  that  humanity 

Which  "makes  the  whole  world  kin.'' 


WALLS  OF  CORN  AND  OTHER  POEMS.  199 

We  prize  the  sympathy  none  the  less 

That  is  Hashed  from  every  shore, 
Because,  with  reverent  thankfulness, 
And  with  tender  tears,  we  prize  and  bless 

That  of  our  brothers  the  more. 

Then  ring,  ye  bells!    Ye  organs,  sound, 

In  anthems  deep  and  grand! 
Let  joyful  cannon  shake  the  ground: 
Let  feasts  be  spread,  let  joy  abound— 

Love  reigns  throughout  the  land. 


Machine  Poetry. 

1  sit  me  down  to  make  a  butch  of  rhymes; 
I've  nothing  in  particular  to  say; 

'Tis  just  to  turn  a  crank  and  count  the  times- 
Such  poetry  is  ground  out  every  day. 

The  papers  teern  with  it,  why  shouldn't  I 
Help  swell  this  tone  that  current  poets  sing? 

'Tis  neither  soft  and  sweet,  nor  grand  and  high, 
And  has  no  meaning — just  an  empty  ring. 

1  fill  my  hoppers  with  the  lightest  trash, 
Not  throwing  in  one  grain  of  thought  or  passion, - 

No  bright  idea,  lest  its  sudden  flash 
Should  startle— for  ideas  are  out  of  fashion, 

I  talk  of  love,  of  course,  but  in  such  style 
That  anyone  can  see  there's  nothing  in  it; 

I  turn  off  love-sick  stanzas  while  I  smile, 
And  wonder  if  some  fool  will  think  I  mean  it. 

I  screech,  high-keyed,  in  wild  and  mournful  tones, 
A  wail  for  some  one  false  or  long  departed: 

I  rake  the  past,  and  over  dead,  dry  bones 
Utter  a  dirge  that  sounds  quite  broken-hearted. 


300  WALLS  OF  CORN   AND  OTHER  POEMS. 

Meanwhile,  but  few  are  ever  taken  in 
By  all  this  stuff:  most  people  know  too  well 

The  spurious  tricks  of  rhyme,  its  crying  sin: 
Its  make-believe,  its  hollow,  sounding  shell. 

I  tell  my  "poet's  lie"  without  offense, 

For  tis  a  sort  of  sickly-solemn  joke 
That  none  believes  in  who  has  common  sense; 

It  takes  so  little  flre  to  make  a  smoke. 

Long-suffering  public,  take  my  grist  of  chaff— 
At  your  own  price— we  surely  shall  not  quarrel. 

It  will  not  make  you  weep  or  laugh; 
But  then,  you  know,  'twill  help  ftl!  up  the  •'barrel.'* 


A  Race  For  Life. 

Somebody  must  probe  that  hidden  vein- 
Somebody  must  clear  that  under-ground  way 

For  the  choked-up  stream-  and  so  the  twain 
Whose  story  1  tell,  went  down  that  day. 

Were  they  heroes?    Only  two  working  men, 
With  mud-stained  clothes,  and  rough-shod  feet; 

But  somebody  loved  (hem—  life  was,  then, 
Something  to  cling  to,  dear  and  sweet. 

Overhead  the  beautiful  sunshine  lay, 
Yet  they  toiled  in  darkness,  save  the  beam 

Of  one  dim  lantern,  that  showed  the  way, 
And  flashed  on  the  walls  its  ghostly  gleam. 

Far  from  the  entrance  an  awful  sound 
Arose  behind  them— the  horrible  roar 

Of  the  pent-up  waters,  just  unbound, 
Surging,  swelling,  like  tides  on  the  shore. 


WALLS  OF  CORN  AND  OTHER  POEMS. 


Quick,  to  the  entrance!  the  stream  sweeps  on! 

Fear  lends  them  wings — a  misstep,  a  fall; 
Then  pitchy  darkness — the  light  is  gone! 

They  must  feel  the  way  by  the  slimy  wall. 

With  cold,  numb  hands,  and  careful  feet, 
They  have  threaded  the  passage  and  stand  below 

The  vaulted  entrance;  here  horrors  meet — 
Tiie  ladder  is  gone  in  the  surge  and  flow! 

Up  to  the  armpits  the  water  lies, 
And  now  to  the  neck;  the  lips,  the  brow 

Well  go  under  next,  as  tha  black  tides  rise; 
C.m  anything,  anything  save  them  now? 

Something  comes  floating.     A  shout,  a  cry, 

'•The  ladder!    Here,  comrade,  make  steady  feet; 

1  hold  it— you  mount,  and  then  will  I— 
'Thank  God!  was  ever  daylight  so  sweet?" 


Ever  Day  Work. 

Great  deeds  are  trumpeted;  loud  bells  are  rung, 

And  men  turn  round  to  see 
The  high  peaks  echo  to  the  peans  sung 

O'er  some  great  victory. 

And  yet  great  deeds  are  few.    The  mightiest  men 
Find  opportunities  but  now  and  then. 

Shall  one  sit  idle  through  long  days  of  peace, 

Waiting  for  walls  to  scale  ? 
Or  lie  in  port  until  some  "Golden  Fleece" 

Lures  him  to  face  the  gale  ? 
There's  work  enough:  why  idly,  then,  delay? 
His  work  counts  most  who  labors  every  day. 


WALLS  OF  CORN  AND  OTHER  POKMS. 

A  torrent  sweeps  down  the  mountain's  brow, 

With  foam  and  Hash  and  roar. 
Anon  its  strength  is  spent— where  is  it  now  v 

Its  one  short  day  is  o'er. 

But  the  clear  stream  that  through  the  meadow  flows 
All  the  long  summer  on  its  mission  goes. 

Better  the  steady  flow:  the  torrent's  dash 

Soon  leaves  its  rent  track  dry. 
Thelightwe  love  is  not  a  lightning  flash 

From  out  a  midnight  sky. 
But  the  sweet  sunshine,  whose  unfailing  ray. 
From  its  calm  throne  of  blue  lights  every  day. 

The  sweetest  lives  are  those  to  duty  wed  — 
Whose  deeds  both  great  and  small. 

Are  close-knit  strands  of  one  unbroken  thread. 
Where  love  ennobles  all. 

The  world  may  sound  no  trumpets,  ring  no  bells— 

The  Book  of  Life  the  shining  record  tells. 


Farmer  John. 

"If  I'd  nothing  to  do,''  said  Farmer  John. 

"To  fret  or  to  bother  me — 
Were  I  but  rid  of  this  mountain  of  work, 

What  a  good  man  I  could  be." 

"The  pigs  get  out,  and  the  cows  get  in 
Where  they  have  no  right  to  be:. 

And  the  weeds  in  the  garden  and  in  the  corn- 
Why,  they  fairly  frighten  me." 

"It  worries  me  out  of  temper  quite, 

And  well  nigh  out  of  my  head. 
What  a  curse  it  is  that  a  man  must  toil 

Like  this  for  his  daily  bread." 


WALLS  OF  CORN  AND  OTHER  POEMS.  203 


But  Farmer  John  broke  liis  leg, 

And  was  kept  for  many  a  week 
A  helpless  and  an  idle  man; — 

Was  he  therefore  mild  and  meek? 

Nay:  what  with  the  pain,  and  what  with  the  fret 

Of  sitting  with  nothing  to  do — 
And  the  farm  work  blotched  by  a  shiftless  hand, 

He  got  very  cross  and  blue. 

He  scolded  the  children  and  cuffed  the  dog 

That. fawned  about  his  knee; 
And  snarled  at  his  wife,  though  she  was  kind 

And  patient  as  a  wife  could  be. 

He  grumbled  and  whined  and  fretted  and  fumed, 

The  whole  long  day  through. 
'•'Twill  ruin  me  quite,"  cried  Farmer  John,. 

"To  sit  here  with  nothing  to  do!" 

Hut  the  time  wore  on,  and  he  thoughtful  grew, 

As  he  watched  his  patient  wife, 
And  he  vowed  one  morn  with  a  tear  in  his  eye, 

He  would  lead  a  different  life. 

His  hurt  got  well,  and  he  went  to  work; 

And  a  busier  man  than  he, 
A  happier  man,  or  a  pleasanter  man, 

You  never  would  wish  to  see. 

The  pigs  got  out,  and  he  drove  them  back, 

Whistling  right  merrily; 
He  mended  the  fence,  and  kept  the  cows 

Just  where  they  ought  to  be. 

Weeding  the  garden  was  jolly  fun, 

And  ditto  hoeing  the  corn. 
'•I'm  happier  far,"  said  Farmer  John, 

"Than  I  have  been  since  I  was  born." 


2»4         WALLS  OF  CORN  AND  OTHER  POF.MS. 

He  learned  a  lesson  that  lasted  him  well: 
'Twill  last  him  his  whole  life  through. 

lie  frets  but  seldom,  and  never  because 
He  has  plenty  of  work  to  do. 

"  I  tell  you  what,"  says  Farmer  John. 

"They  are  either  knaves  or  fools 
Who  long  to  be  idle,  for  idle  hands 

Are  the  Devil's  chosen  tools!" 


Labor. 

Welcome,  life's  toil?    I  thank  the  gracious  Giver 
Who  find  my  heart  and  hands  their  work  to  do: 

That  labor  done  still  multiplies  forever, 
And  each  swift  hour  and  moment  claims  its  due- 

I  pity  him  whositshim  down  repining, 
Bound  in  his  idleness— a  silken  thong; 

lie  hates  the  sun  and  wearies  of  its  shining; 
His  moments  creep— for  empty  days  are  long. 

M.v  days  are  full,  I  have  no  far  off  "mission:" 
My  work  is  near;  'tis  only  mine  to  stand 

Accepting  tasks  that  spring  from  my  condition — 
Doing,  as  best  I  may,  the  work  at  hand. 

It  may  be  small:  yet,  drop  by  drop  is  added 
To  make  the  gentle  flow,  the  steady  stream: 

The  smallest  needle,  if  'tis  often  threaded 
By  patient  hand,  may  sew  the  longest  seam. 

The  finest  strands  may  twist  into  a  cable; 

Small  stones  be  piled  till  looms  a  pyramid, 
Slow,  patient  thought  may  break  the  crust  of  fable, 
.  Beneath  which  golden  mines  of  truth  be  hid. 


WALLS  OF  CORN  AND  OTHER  POEMS.  205 

I  cannot  always  see  my  cable  growing; 

Xor  always  see  my  pile  of  stones  increase; 
Yet,  while  I  toil—  the  still  years  swiftly  going — 

This  fruit  of  labor  bears;  itbringeth  peace. 


The  Wild-Rose. 

Peeping  from  out  the  hedges, 

Bending  above  the  brim 
Of  the  stream  that  threads  the  meadows, 

Fringing  the  forest  dim. 

Stealing  into  my  garden 

Waiting  not  my  call; 
Scaling  the  ancient  gateway, 

Creeping  under  the  wall. 

Climbing  the  mossed  enclosure 
Yonder,  where  willows  wave, 

Nestling  against  the  tombstone, 
Clustered  on  every  grave. 

Christened  by  name,  yet  blooming 

Silently  everywhere; 
Asking  for  naught'  yet  giving, 

Lavish  as  summer  air, 

I  lore  thee,  rose  of  the  hedges, 
Rose  of  the  streamlet's  rim; 

Meek  adorner  of  tombstones, 
Prince  of  the  forest  dim. 


>IK,  WALLS  OF  CORN  AND  OTHER  POEMS. 


To  Mrs.  C.  H.  Phillips. 

Brave  woman,  treacling  with  unfaltering  feet, 
A  path  of  sorrow,  wet  with  many  a  tear, 

Sustaining,  with  a  courage  rare  and  sweet, 
Your  heavy  weight  of  grief,  so  hard  to  bear; 

A  sister  greets  you.    Could  my  lips  but  speak 
In  language  sweet  and  tender,  strong  and  true, 

All  the  full  sympathies  that  utterance  seek, 
Some  crumb  of  comfort  it  might  bring  to  you. 

I  know  you  well.    I  mark  your  sunny  face, 
Your  bright  and  kindly  smile,  your  cheerful  tone; 

Yet,  hidden  close  within  its  sacred  place, 
I  know  that  patient  grief  still  holds  its  throne. 

All  that  your  friends  can  give  you  gladly  take: 
You  bid  them  welcome  to  your  lovely  home; 

And  yet  your  heart  still  holds  its  weary  ache, 
Its  darkened  chambers  where  no  friend  can  come. 

The  lonely  night,  with  dreams  of  pleasure  past, 
The  waking  but  to  feel  they  are  no  more; 

The  long,  long  days  (they  once  did  fly  so  fast!) 
The  sense  of  dreary  loss,  the  longing  sore. 

I  know  all  these;  and  yet  I  know  that  Time- 
Time,  the  dread  spoiler— hath  a  touch  of  healing: 

O'er  cherished  graves  snow  falls,  and  winter  rime 
Cool  grasses  creep,  and  moss  comes  softly  stealing. 

Earth  hath  a  tender  clasp.    In  slumder  deep 
Folds  she  our  dear  ones  to  her  peaceful  breast. 

For  them  all  trial  ends;  so.  let  us  weep 
Few  bitter  tears  o'er  their  untroubled  rest. 


WALLS  OF  CORN  AND  OTHER  POEMS.  207 

No  need  that  we  forget;  let  grief  pass  by, 
While  we  live  o'er  the  tender  precious  hours, 

The  touch,  the  kiss — so  dear  to  memory. 
These  are  our  own— sweet,  never-fading  flowers. 

Sad'  are  our  partings,  dark  the  night  of  sorrow, 
Yet  blest  are  we,  if  hope  descry  the  dawn; 

If  faith  reach  forward  to  a  sweet  to-morrow. 
Whose  joys  await  us  when  the  night  is  gone. 


Peace  After  War. 

Rest  for  the  dead.    No  more,  for  marches  dreary, 

They  stretch  their  stiffened  limbs  when  bugles  sound; 
No  more  at  night  they  lie  down,  wet  and  weary, 
Upon  the  sodden  ground. 

No  more  the  gallant  charge,  amid  the  screaming 

Of  murderous  iron  ball  and  bursting  shell, 
Up  steep  and  slippery  slopes — with  warm  blood  streaming- 
"Into  the  mouth  of  hell." 

No  more  the  dreadful  search,  the  battle  over, 

While  up  the  placid  sky  the  white  moon  climbs; 
No  more  the  mournful  truce,  while  both  sides  cover 
Torn  breasts  and  shattered  limbs. 

Not  truce  to-day,  but  peace.     Soft  grass  is  creeping, 

Year  after  year,  above  the  broken  sod, 
Where  gallant  foemen — foes  no  more— are  sleeping, 
Blossoms  the  golden  rod. 

Where  passed  the  armies,  when  the  shock  of  meeting, 
Deep  fissures  were,  and  fields  all  tramped  and  torn, 
Now  happy  birds,  the  same  old  song  repeating, 
Flit  through  the  growing  corn. 


208  WALLS  OF  CORN  AND  OTHER  POEMS. 

Thus  Mature  speaks  to  all,  with  mute  appealing, 

Wrapping  in  tender  green  each  gaping  scar. 
Shall  man  alone  resist  her  touch  of  healing, 
And  still  remain  at  war? 

No,  no.     If  any  lurking  hate  yet  lingers 

In  any  heart,  oh  fling  it  far  away! 
While  fragrant  flowers  are  strewed  by  loving  fingers 
Above  both  blue  and  gray. 


Tragedy  and  Farce. 

Sweetly  the  summer-sun  is  shining 
Out  from  the  dome  of  the  sapphire  sky; 

Green  are  the  pastures,  the  wheat-fields  golden: 
Calmly  the  river  goes  rolling  by. 

Peace  at  the  center  and  on  the  border — 
Hum  of  industry  everywhere — 

Teams  afield— the  clatter  of  reapers- 
Songs  of  harvesters  on  the  air. 

Blithe  are  the  sounds  of  the  summer-morning; 

But  stay  -the  songs  cease  suddenly: 
The  lift  of  a  hand— the  crack  of  a  pistol — 

And  cheeks  turn  pallid  from  sea  to  sea. 

A  dim,  hushed  room— a  sick  man  lying 

Fainting  with  weakness,  racked  witli  piiin: 

Rosy  bulletins,  morning  and  evening, 
Raising  our  hopes  to  be  dashed  again: 

Week  after  week  of  weary  waiting; 

Trembling  millions  on  bended  knee; 
Later,  a  still  form,  pallid,  pulseless, 

There  in  the  cottage  by  the  sea. 


WALLS  OF  CORN  AND  OTHER  POEMS.  209 

Thus  it  is  ended — the  long,  slow  torture: 
Ended  our  hopes,  our  doubts,  our  fears. 

Towns  and  cities  are  draped  in  sable  — 
A  mighty  nation  sits  drowned  in  tears. 

***** 

Crowded  court-room,  Judge  and  jury: 

Ghastly  farce,  where  the  high  and  low, 
Master  and  servant,  maid  and  mistress, 

Come  together  to  see  the  show. 

Blood-stained  wretch,  as  leading  actor, 

Blusters  and  rants  in  his  brutal  way; 
Browbeats  witnesses  and  lawyers, 

Just  as  he  wills  it  to  run  the  play, 

Beautiful  ladies,  plumed  and  jeweled 

(They  wept  for  his  victim),  calmly  sitj 
Soft  cheeks  dimpling  with  covert  laughter: 

Judges  smile  at  his  insolent  wit. 

How  long,  how  long,  shall  these  scenes  continue, 
While  the  whole  world  looks  on  in  scorn? 

How  many  pages  must  stain  our  annals, 
For  children  to  blush  at,  yet  unborn. 

Sadly  we  watched  o'er  a  good  man  dying, 
And  shed  our  tears  o'er  the  murdered  dead: 

With  cheeks  scarce  dry,  shall  we  speak  no  protest 
While  the  murderer  stars  it  where  he  bled? 

For  very  shame,  cut  short,  O  Justice! 

Drop  the  curtain!  put  out  the  light! 
Through  all  the  land  we  are  weary— weary: 

Hide  this  monster  away  from  sight! 


WALLS  OF  CORN  AND  OTHER  POEMS. 


If  I  were  You. 

Would  you  have  your  name  to  echo, 

Generations  through? 
I  would  make  it  worth  repeating 
If  I  were  you. 

Do  you  wish  to  win  disciples? 

Reason  and  then  no, 
I  would  follow  my  own  preaching 
If  I  were  you. 

Do  you  blow  a  public  trumpet? 

Let  its  tone  be  true. 
I  would  never  pitch  it  falsely 
,        If  1  were  you. 

Would  you  fill  a  post  of  honor? 

Earn  it  ere  you  sue. 
I  would  merit  ere  I  begged  it 
If  I  were  you. 

Are  you  set  to  serve  your  country? 

To  your  trust  be  true. 
I'd  not  steal  my  master's  silver 
If  I  were  you. 

Are  you  fickle— prone  to  changing 

Old  friends  for  the  new? 
I  would  keep  the  old  and  tried  ones 
If  I  were  you. 

Have  you  won  a  loving  woman? 

To  your  love  be  true. 
I'd  not  win  a  heart  to  break  it 
If  I  were  you. 


The  last  night  of  the  year, 

I  sat  alone 
Beside  the  dying  fire. 


WALLS  OF  CORN  AND  OTHER  POEMS. 

Would  you  leave  a  written  record 

Clear  as  heaven's  blue? 
I  would  keep  each  page  unspotted 
If  I  were  you. 

Do  you  preach  a  day  when  judgement- 
Gives  each  man  his  due? 
I  would  be  what  1  pretended 
If  I  were  you. 


The  Last  Hour  of  the  Year. 

I  sit  me  clown  to  watch  with  thee,  Old  Year, 
E'en  to  thy  last  throe,  for  I  have  loved  thee  well; 

And  fain  would  at  thy  parting  drop  my  tear, 
Though  I  may  chant  no  requiem,  toll  no  bell. 

In  thy  soft  spring  time,  in  the  summer  glory, 
And  when  in  autumn  days  each  wooded  hill 

Stood  crowned  with  flame,  I've  loved  thee — old  and  hoary; 
With  thy  last  moment's  going,  I  love  thee  still! 

Yes,  I  will  watch  with  thee,  while  silence  deep 

Reigns  all  around  me,  only  tick  by  tick 
The  clock  tells  off  the  seconds,  and  the  sweep 

Of  this  last  hour  is  told  by  each  low  click. 

I  trim  my  midnight  lamp,  and  sit  and  think. 

One  questions  Conscience  at  a  deathbed,  so  here 
I  question  mine,  and  ravel,  link  by  link, 

My  chain  of  words  and  deeds,  that  spans  the  year. 

Would  it  were  woven  better!  but  in  vain 

Are  all  regrets  unless  one  gird  the  life, 
Amid  the  sackcloth  of  repentant  pain, 

With  strength  to  conquer  in  a  braver  strife? 


212  WALLS  OF  CORN  AND  OTHER  POKMS. 

But  while  I  cast  a  sober,  backward  eye, 
Above  my  low-bowed  head  the  clock  ticks  on; 

One  moment  only!  .swiftly,  silently. 
This  one  moment  goes— and  now  'tis  gone. 

Twelve  ringing,  thrilling  strokes!  and  now,  I  know. 
The  chimes  peal  out  from  many  a  midnight  bell; 

Here  but  the  night  wind  sighs  above  the  snow, 
I've  watched  with  thee — thou  diest— so  farewell! 


Thanksgiving  Night. 

Blow  and  blow,  November  storm, 
Frost  my  windows,  beat  at  my  door! 

But  you  cannot  come  to  my  fireside  warm, 
Where  I  sit  and  hark  to  your  gusty  roar. 

You  beard  the  trees  with  your  frosty  breath; 

You  grasp  the  stream  in  your  icy  hand, 
And  the  sleeping  lake  lies  still  as  death, 

Waveless,  mute,  by  the  frozen  land. 

The  leaves  scarce  fallen,  the  birds  scarce  flown, 
You  grasp  full  soon  with  your  pitiless  hold 

Upon  sod  and  stream,  upon  Held  and  town — 
Hasty  and  fierce  is  your  griping  cold. 

I  pity  the  poor  in  your  hand,  to-night — 
In  shaking  garrets,  in  cellars  damp, 

.Shrinking,  shivering,  thin  and  white: 
Death  is  abroad  on  his  stealthy  tramp! 

Yet  this  wild  night  is  Thanksgiving  night. 
And  some  give  thanks,  some  feast  and  play; 

Some  shiver  and  freeze,  while  soft  and  bright 
The  festal  lamps  shine  over  the  way. 


WALLS  OF  CORN  AND  OTHER  POEMS.  213 

O,  ye  who  feast  in  happy  homes, 

Thankful  for  much,  expecting  more, 
While  joy  along  with  thanksgiving  comes— 

To-night,  to-night  remember  the  poor! 


Our  Chart. 

From  day  to  day  we  float  upon  a  sea, 

Now  softly  rippling  to  a  summer  wind, 
Now  plowed  by  gales  and  tossing  storm ily, 

With  rocks  before  and  gulfing  waves  behind, 
And  sails  all  torn  and  flapping  uselessly, 

But  whether  on  the  ever-changing  sea 
Sweet  summer  sheds  it  calm  or  winter  wails: 

Whether  in  safe,  still  harbors  we  may  be, 
Or  driven  onward  by  relentless  gales, 

Or  close  by  battling  crags  creep  cautiously — 

We  have  a  chart  to  guide  us  on  through  all! 

Past  treacherous  quicksands— past  the  breakers'  roar- 
Past  rocky  capes,  where  storms  forever  fall, 

Tli  rough  narrow  passes,  where  rocks  huge  and  hoar, 
Lock  out  the  sunlight  with  a  frowning  wall. 

Our  guide  to  safety  and  an  open  sea, 

Where  any  winds  shall  wrangle  nevermore— 

If  we  but  heed  its  reckonings  carefully— 
The  sea  without  a  storm,  without  a  shore; 

A  calm  and  peaceful  deep— Eternity! 


214  WALLS  OF  CORN  AND  OTHER  POEMS. 


To  Mr.  and  Mrs.  John  Young. 

We  give  you  heartfelt  greeting,— you  two,  who  hand   in 

hand 

Have  toiled  up  stony  places,  and  now  together  stand 
Surrounded  by  the  plenty  and  the  fatness  of  the  land. 

You  have  helped  to  build  the  country,  as  early  pioneers; 
You  have  shared  ea3h  other's  pleasures,  you  have  wept  each 

other's  tears; 
And  have  cut  your  loaf  together— for  five  and  twenty  years. 

You  have  shared  your  toil  arid  trouble,  with   willing  hearts 

and  true: 

You  have  bravely  pulled  together — and  a  load,  to  me  or  you, 
Is  only  half  as  heavy  for  being  borne  by  two. 

All  praise  to  honest  labor!  and  to  the  patient  skill 

That  has  helped  you  over  ditches,  and  so  far  up  the  hill; — 

To  the  cheerful  perseverance  that  keeps  you  climbing  still. 

You  have  had  your  days  of  sadness,  of  shadows  dark  and 

deep; 
You  have  grown  footsore  and  heavy  when  the  way  was  hard 

and  steep; 
And  sometimes,  over  weary,  have  sat  you  down  to  weep. 

You  have  had  your  bitter  losses— stretching  hands  in  vain 

to  save; 

You  have  seen  your  blossoms  dropping,  each  to  a  tiny  grave, 
Where  the  winter    drifts    lie  heavy,,  where  the   summer 

grasses  wave. 

But  your  arms  are  not  left  empty;  one  hears,  from  out  the 

street, 

The  sound  of  children's  voices,  the  fall  of  little  feet; 
And  sees,  beside  you  standing,  young  daughters  fair  and 

sweet. 


WALLS  OF  CORN  AND  OTHER  POEMS.  215 

So  blessings  cover  losses,  so  kindly  old  hurts  heal. 

'Tis  well  for  all  that  sorrow  gives  place  to  pleasant  weal, 

That  we  need  not  feel  forever  the  prick  of  cruel  steel. 

Sufficient  each  day's  evil— sufficient  to  alloy, 

With  its  dash  of  pungent  bitter,  the  sweet  of  passing  joy. 

Then  let  us  not  reach  backward  for  something  to  annoy. 

So  here's  a  merry  greeting.    We  wake  no  silent  knells,  „ 
No  stir  the  choking  damps  in  your  dark  and  sunken  wells. 
We  come  as  friends  and  neighbors,  to  ring  your  wedding 

bells. 

We  come  with  best  good  wishes — for  this  my  song  is  sung — 
With  friendship  in  each  hand-clasp,  good  will  on  every 

tongue, 
Long  may  you  live  and  prosper — may  you  be  always  Young. 

May  you  see  increasing  fullness  in  basket  and  in  store; 
May  you  barns  with  bursting  plenty  be  full  and  runningo'er: 
May  your  roots  strike  deep  and  deeper,  like  the  poplar  at 

your  door. 

May  Time  steal  gentle  marches,  and  touch  you  tenderly; 
May  you  clasp  your  children's  children,  and  may  you  live  to 

see 
The  day  of  your  golden  wedding— and  won't  you  please  ask 

me? 


216  WALLS  OF  CORN  AND  OTHER  POEMS. 


Mrs.  Hattie  Tyng  Griswold. 

I  cast  me  not  down  to  worship — 

She  is  human  as  well  as  I; 
And  the  same  sun  lights  the  valleys 

That  kisses  the  hill-tops  high. 

No  words  of  wild  adulation 

Have  I  for  the  pet  of  fame; 
She  hath  no  need  of  incense 

Such  as  goeth  up  to  a  name. 

But  something  lovelier,  dearer, 
Than  crowds  ever  rise  and  crown, 

Calleth  on  me  for  telling  — 
Calleth  the  sweet  tears  down. 

[  have  seen  her — the  wife  and  mother— 
Little  feet  all  about  her  played, 

And  the  babes  that  slept  in  the  twilight 
Rollicking  music  made. 

I  know  not  why.  but  it  touched  me, 
And  quickened  my  pulse's  beat— 

I  had  found  the  poet  a  woman, 
Tender  and  true  and  sweet. 


Two  Christmas  Guests. 

'Tis  Christmas  eve.    All  silent  lies  the  prairie  brown  and 

sere, 
And  amid  the  voiceless  shadows  the   midnight  hours  draw 

near. 

As  I  sit  here  musing,  dreaming,  and  turning  memory's 

leaves. 
There  pass  in  long  procession,  so  many  Christmas  eves! 


WALLS  OP  CORN  AND  OTHER  POEMS.  217 

And  one,  of  all  the  many,  to-night  stands  out  alone 

In  its  joy  and  its  tender  sorrow,  with  a  pathos  all  its  own. 

There  were  feasting  and   rejoicing,  and  the  village  streets 

were  gay, 
But  the  lights  burned  low  and  dimly  in  the  house  across 

the  way. 

Full  well  I  knew  the  inmates— the  household  numbered 

three  — 
A  husband,  a  dear  old  father,  and  a  young  wife  fair  to  see. 

Kindly  they  dwelt  together,  'twas  said  none  ever  heard 
In  that  house  a  tone  of  anger,  nor  any  unkind  word. 

But  Life  and  Death  together  that  night  had  crossed  the  sill; 
The  good  old  man  lay  dying,  and  the  fair  young  wife  was  ill. 

Without  the  merry  sleighbells  rang  up  and  down  the  street, 
Within,  were  low-hushed  voices,  and  the  tread  of  noiseless 
feet. 

A  sound  arose  at  midnight— the  first  cry  of  a  child. 

The  dying  grandsire  heard  it,  looked  up,  and  faintly  smiled. 

A  son  is  born?    I  thank  thee.  O  Father,  for  thy  grace. 
I  go,  but  this  one  cometh,  and  he  shall  take  my  place. 

I  pray  you  bring  him  hither— go,  bring  the  boy  to  me, 

I  fain  would  once  behold  him,  while  yet  these  eyes  can  see. 

The  babe  was  brought,  and  smiling,  the  old  man  softly  said, 
As  he  laid  his  pallid  fingers  on  the  tiny  baby  head: 

I  have  no  wealth  to  leave  him,  in  houses  or  in  lands, — 
For  e'en  as  I  came  hither,  I  go  with  empty  hands: 

But  tell  him  for  his  grandsire-  tell  him  as  child  and  youth — 
To  be  loyal,  kind  and  loving,  and  always  speak  the  truth. 


218  WALLS  OF  CORN  AND  OTHER  POEMS. 

But  little  more  was  spoken,  a  solemn  silence  fell, 
Save  but  the  sound  of  weeping,  and  the  whispsr,  "All   is 
well." 

When  Christmas  morn  rose  brightly  from  out  the  shadows 

gray, 
A  strip  of  crape  was  floating  from  the  door  across  the  way. 

Amid  the  still  night  watches,  thus  calmly,  peacefully, 
Had  the  good  old  man  departed— yet  the  household  num 
bered  three. 

Though  Life  and  Death  come  surely  into  the  homes  of  men, 
They  come  not  oft  together,  and  so  peacefully  as  then. 

And  that  is  why,  in  my  musings,  that  night  stands  out 

alone, 
In  its  joy  and  its  tender  sorrow,  with  a  pathos  all  its  own. 


The  Last  Hour. 

Only  another  hour.    The  night  creeps  by 
The  same  as  other  nights.     No  dying  moan> 

Disturb  the  darkness;  only  mournfully 
The  winter  rain  drips  slowly  o'er  the  stones. 

The  whole  house  sleeps,  I  only  watch  and  wait, 
Through  the  last  hour  of  the  hoary  year, 

To  con  the  last  line  of  this  leaf  of  fate,— 
This  record,  blotched  and  blurred  by  many  a  tear/ 

The  leaf  shall  turn  at  midnight;  nevermore 
Shall  human  deed  or  passion  mark  its  face. 

And  none  may  change  it,  though  repenting  sore, 
We  write  at  will— ah,  would  we  might  erase \ 


WALLS  OF  CORN  AND  OTHER  POEMS. 


Come,  good  resolves.    This  hour  is  left  to  make 
Strong  promises  to  cast  out  every  sin, 

And  solemn  vows  great  things  to  undertake; — 
But  there's  the  year  ahead  to  break  them  in. 

We  all  are  weak;  yet,  counting  on  our  strength, 
We  lay  our  plans  like  Titans,— we,  so  small! 

We  seek  to  execute,  and  find  at  length, 
We  do  but  pigmies'  work — or  none  at  all. 

Well,  be  it  so.    Better  to  strive  in  vain 

Than  to  sit  idle;  better  that  we  fall 
In  hidden  pitfalls,  time  and  time  again, 

Than  cling  like  cowards  to  some  sheltering  wall. 

The  years  grow  shorter;  youth  slips  fast  away; 

I  see  upon  my  brow  the  prints  of  care; 
My  step  is  growing  sober,  and  to-day 

I  plucked  some  threads  of  silver  from  my  hair. 

We  all  are  growing  old — like  time.     'Tis  well 
If  we  gain  wisdom  as  our  locks  turn  gray. 

No  room  for  pride;  only  a  slab  shall  tell — 
And  that  shall  crumble— of  our  little  day. 

The  o'clock  strike.    So  the  old  year  dies, 
And  so  the  new  is  born.    I  list  in  vain 

For  sound  or  speech— for  groans  or  natal  cries; 
I  hear  only  the  dripping  of  the  rain. 


WALLS  OF  CORN  AND  OTHER  POEMS. 


Who  Knows? 

Philosophy  assumes  to  tell 

How  happened  this,  how  happened  that; 
Reasons  of  sequence  passing  well, 

By  process  none  may  cavil  at. 

If  this  be  true,  then  that  must  be; 

And  so  on,  which  seems  very  plain; 
But  what  rules  human  destiny 

We  ask  and  cannot  ascertain. 

The  deeds  we  do,  the  words  we  say, 
May  serve  our  purpose,  or  may  not; 

Some  soul  may  be  a  wreck  to-day 
Through  some  slight  word,  long  since  forgot, 

"  Mistakes,"  says  Science;  yet  the  wise, 

Whose  far  gaze  tracks  the  rolling  spheres, 
Grope  blindly  through  life's  mysteries, 
And  weep,  with  others,  human  tears. 

Philosophy  cannot  forecast 
The  workings  of  one  human  breast; 

Nor  trace  the  springs  of  actions  past: 
Life  is  a  riddle  at  the  best. 

We  plan  what  we  shall  be  and  do, 
While  bars  of  fate  around  us  close. 

That  strain  or  stroke  may  not  break  through; 
We  plan  and  purpose,  but— who  knows? 


WALLS  OF  CORN  AND  OTHER  POEMS.  221 


The  Storm. 

A  summer  day.     A  bank  of  cloud, 

Low  in  the  far  northwest, 
Which,  dim  and  hazy,  sullen  browed, 
It  hides  as  yet,  with  misty  shroud, 

Tlie  passion  in  its  breast. 

.  * 
The  lazy  hours  slowly  creep; 

All  breathless  is  the  noon; 
And  still  in  solemn,  stately  sweep, 
Uprolls  the  cloud,  with  growlings  deep 

'•Tiis  storm  iscoming  soon.'' 

Another  hour.     Thick  darkness  falls, 

And  rosy  cheeks  grow  pale, 
The  fearful  roar  all  hearts  appalls, 
And  gre3ii  are  those  advancing  walls, 

Warning  of  wind  and  hail. 

Louder,  yet  louder;  crash  and  roar, 

And  blinding  sheets  of  rtre — 
While  Dorics  and  chains  go  streaking  o'er 
That  livid  green;  which,  more  and  more, 

Bodeth  of  tempest  dire. 

The  awful  storm  bursts  forth  at  last, 

In  wind,  and  hail  and  rain. 
Like  jagged  stones  from  cannon  cast, 
The  blocks  of  ice  come  crashing  fast 

Through  many  a  shivered  pane. 

The  jagged  ice,  the  flood  that  pours, 

The  flash,  and  roar,  and  hiss; 
The  flying  glass,  the  rattling  doors, 
The  dripping  walls,  the  streaming  floors — 

A  fearful  scene  is  this! 

*  *  *  *  * 


WALLS  OF  CORN  AND  OTHER  POK.Ms. 

At  last  the  storm  is  spent  and  o'er; 

The  cloud  has  rolled  a\va\ . 
At  shattered  window,  battered  door, 
We  stand  and  look  abroad  once  more, 

With  faces  of  dismay. 

The  teeming  earth  that  smiled  at  morn, 

Her  fair  face  fresh  from  sleep; 
Now  lies  with  garments  frayed  and  torn, 
Here  strewn  with  wrecks  the  floods  have  borne, 

There  furrowed  wide  and  deep, 

Through  leafeless  trees  an  hour  ago 

Fruit-laden,  glossy  green; 
The  damp  wind  passes,  sighing  low; 
The  fruit  lies  heaped  like  winter  snow, 

With  dead  birds  wedged  be b ween. 

Gardens,  with  flowers  rich  and  rare, 

Of  leaf  and  stalk  are  reft, 
As  if  some  giant,  passing  there, 
Had  wielded  broom  and  swept  them  bare, 

And  ne'er  a  green  thing  left. 

The  saddest  yet  is  still  untold, 

For,  more  than  all,  we  mourn  — 
More  than  bare  trees  or  flowers  of  gold, 
Of  green  fruit  crushed  in  sodden  mould— 

The  ruined  fields  of  corn. 

At  noon  in  solid  ranks  they  stood, 

With  plumes  and  pennons  gay: 
All  close  and  thick  as  jungle  wood, 
Eacli  great  ear  wrapped  in  bright  green  hood, 

A  brave  and  rich  array. 

But  now,  Oh  now!  the  plumes  are  shorn} 
The  bruised  stalks  leafless  stand, 


WALLS  OF  CORN  AND  OTHER  POEMS. 


The  massive  ears  with  hoods  all  torn, 
JTang  drooping,  battered  and  forlorn, 
Or  strew  the  sodden  land. 


When  Days  Grow  Dark. 

The  world  grows  dim,  so  far  I  see  your  face, 
Your  dear,  kind  face,  so  often  bent  on  me 

In  tender  pity,  and  I  fondly  trace 
The  well  known  features  while  I  yet  can  see, 

Ere  fades  such  twilight  as  is  left  me  yet,. 

Lest  in  the  coming  darkness  I  forget. 

Forget!    Oh,  no,  not  that!    Although  I  may 
Forget  the  roundness  of  the  robin's  breast, 

The  spreading  crimson  of  the  new  born  day, 
Or  sunset  gold  upon  the  mountain's  crest, 

Your  face  shall  clinging  memory  hold  fast 

And  never  older  than  I  see  it  last. 

I  read  no  more:  above  the  tempting  book 
Gathers  a  mist  impalpable  and  pale, 

Baffling,  relentless;  wheresoe'er  I  look, 
The  page  is  hidden  by  a  filmy  veil. 

Alas!  I  cry  with  slow  and  bittertears, 

Must  it  be  thus  through  all  the  coming  years? 

You  take  the  book  and  pour  into  my  ear 
In  accents  sweet  the  words  I  cannot  see; 

I  listen,  charmed,  forget  my  hauutingfear 
And  think  with  you  as  with  your  eyes  I  see. 

In  the  world's  thought,  so  your  dear  voice  be  left, 

I  still  have  part,  I  am  not  all  bereft. 

And  if  this  darkness  deepens,  when  for  me 
The  new  moon  bends  no  more  her  silver  rim, 

When  stars  go  out  and  over  land  and  sea 
Black  midnight  falls  where  now  is  twilight  dim, 

Oh,  then  may  I  be  patient,  sweet  and  mild, 

While  your  hand  leads  me  like  a  little  child. 


224  WALLS  OF  CORN  AND  OTHER  POEMS. 


How  Two  Knights  Rode  to  London. 

All  ye  who  press  and  hurry  along  life's  stony  way, 
Spurred  onward  by  ambition  that  rest.*  n;>t,  night  or  clay: 
Coma,  listen  to  a  legend  in  plain  and  homely  rhyme, 
All  of  two  gallant  horsemen,  two  knights  of  olden  time. 

These  knights  had  pledged  each  other  above  the  flowing 

bowl, 

To  ride  a  race  to-morrow,  with  London  for  the  goal. 
So  they  met  at  early  morn,  and  both  were  brave  to  view: 
One  bore  a  scarlet  banner  and  one  a  flag  of  blue. 

One  fiercely  spurred  his  charger  and  madly  tore  away. 
Waving  his. scarlet  banner  to  meet  the  rising  clay: 
And  ere  the  dews  of  morning  were  drunk  up  by  the  sun, 
He  gaily  sang,  ''The  wager  is  just  as  good  as  won." 

But  the  knight  who  wore  the  blue  took  such  an  easy  pace, 
You  never  would  have  dreamed  he  was  riding  for  a  race, 
With  banner  softly  floating,  he  sang,  "To  win  at  last 
In  a  long  and  weary  contest,  one  must  not  ride  too  fa>t." 

Still  tore  away  the  other,  on  hill  and  sunny  plain; 

Wild  flew  the  scarlet  banner,  back  streamed  the  charger's 

mane, 
His  breath  came  quick  and  hot,  there  was  foam  on  flank 

and  breast; 
Yet  the  fierce  and  flery  rider  gave  not  a  moment's  rest. 

The  day  grew  hot  and  hotter,  the  summer  sun  rode  high; 
Noon  came;  there  stood  an  inn,  but  the  fierce  knight  ]>a*>f<l 

it  by. 

Still  onward — but  the  sharger  was  faint  and  weary  grown; 
His  splendid  head  was  drooping,   his  strength   was  spent 

and  gone, 


WALLS  OF  CORX  AND  OTHER  POEMS. 


The  spurs  were  buried  deeper,  blood  mingled  with  the  foam, 
But  spur  and  whip  were  bootless—  the  beast  was  overcome. 
He  turned  a  sad  eye  backward,  with  plaintive,  piteous 

moan, 
Yet  his  master  steeled  to  pity,  still  sought  to  spur  him  on. 

But  lo!  the  angry  horseman  heard  hoof-beats  close  abreast, 
'Twas  a  brave  and  gallant  charger  refreshed  by  food  and 

rest. 

A  blue  flag  gaily  floating,  just  brushed  against  his  cheek; 
But  not  a  word  he  uttered— he  was  too  wroth  to  speak. 

Away  sped  horse  and  rider,  and  ere  the  sun  went  down 

They  swept  into  a  court  yard  of  mighty  London  town. 

But  the  evening  fogs  hung  brooding  o'er  the  city's  lessened 
din. 

When  a  steed  all  spent  and  halting  came  faintly  stagger 
ing  in. 

Limp  hung  the  scarlet  banner,  all  trailing  dismally; 
Oh!  that  jaded  horse  and  rider  were  a  sorry  sight  to  see! 
Not  once  for  rest  had    paused  he— that  fierce  and  fiery 

knight — 
And  now  was  lost  his  wager  and  his  steed  was  ruined  quite. 

Thus  ends  the  ancient  tale  with  its  moral  clear  and  strong, 
And  the  moral,  not  the  tale,  is  the  burden  of  my  song. 
It  is  but  this:    He  loses  who  presses  on  too  fast, 
And  patient  moderation  is  winner  at  the  last. 

The  rougher  are  the  steeps  and  the  longer  is  the  road, 

More  fatal  to  success  are  impatient  spur  and  goad. 

Great  things  are  works  of  time— for  true  growth  must  have 

its  way; 
No  structure  that  remaineth  was  builded  in  a  day. 

That  pale,  misguided  youth  who  burns  the  midnight  oil, 
Gains  little  in  reward  for  his  tense  and  wearying  toil, 


WALLS  OF  CORN  AND  OTHER  POEMS. 


Save  features  pinched  and  hollow,  locks  pivmaturch  white, 
Save  broken  health   and  spirits,  save  dimncd  and   failing 

rtgbt. 

Along  life's  rugged  hillside  lies  many  a  shattered  hope. 
Wrecked  in  the  fiery  struggle  up  the  steep  and  stony  slope. 
And  oh!  the  pain  of  weeping  above  a  broken  life! 
Oil!  the  agony  of  falling,  defeated  in  the  strife! 

To  rest  as  well  as  labor,  God  made  both  brawn  and  brain. 
And  strongest  brain  and  muscle  endure  not  ceaseless  strain, 
Let  once  the  strings  be  broken,  the  loss  is  great  indeed  — 
Work,  then,  but  labor  wisely  —  and  thine  be  labor's  meed. 


Spring. 

Oh,  Spring  is  coming,  coming,  treading  softly  on  the  snow, 
And  the  drifts  are  slowly  melting  with  the  pressure  and 

the  glow, 
There's  a  waking  and  a  thrilling  in  the  heart  with  life 

aglow 
That  has  throbbed  through  all   the  winter,  underneath  the 

frozen  snow. 

Let  others  sing  of  summer,  with  its  wavy,  gra^y  sea-;. 

Or  of  glorious,  gorgeous  autumn,  with  her  crimson,  flaming 

trees, 

Or  of  hoary  bearded  winter,  with  its  days  of  glassy  calm. 
But  I  will  sing  the  springtime  with  16s  tenderness  and  balm. 

I  stretch  my  arms  to  greet  her,  and  my  lips  return  her  kiss, 
I  accept  the  joy  she  offers  and  I  drink  her  cup  of  bli>>. 
Oh,  my  heart  is  throbbing,  thrilling  with  a  joy  I  cannot 

tell, 
As  I  wave  my  hand  to  winter  in  a  jubilant  farewell. 


WALLS  OF  CORN  AND  OTHER  POEMS.  227 


A  Dedicatory  Hymn. 

Written  by  request,  and  sung  at  the  dedication  of  the  Bap 
tist  Church  in  Horton. 

Though  highest  heaven  is  thy  throne, 
And  earth  and  suns  and  stars  thine  own, 
Yet  to  thy  feet,  our  Lord  and  King, 
Our  choicest  gifts  we  gladly  bring. 

Wilt  thou  accept,  we  humbly  pray, 
The  offering  we  bring  to-day; 
For  thee  this  house  our  hands  have  made; 
In  love  are  its  foundations  laid. 

May  nothing  sordid  enter  here; 
No  strife  provoke  the  sinner's  sneer. 
With  concert  sweet  and  worship  pure, 
May  peace  remain  and  love  endure. 

As  sunshine  rails,  and  dews  of  night, 
May  blessings  on  these  walls  alight. 
May  all  who  here  shall  bow  the  knee 
With  contrite  hearts,  flnd  rest  in  thee. 

May  souls  afflicted,  tempest-tossed, 
By  floods  o'erwhelmed  in  darkness  lost, 
Find  here  a  light  for  'wildered  feet, 
For  sorest  trouble  comfort  sweet. 

We  all  as  leaves  must  fade  away.— 
This  house  shall  crumble  and  decay; — 
But  yonder — yonder  stands 
A  better  house  not  made  with  hands. 


238  WALLS  OF  CORN   AND  OTHER  POEMS. 


Struggle. 

Great  strength  is  brought  with  pain, 

From  out  the  strife, 

From  out  the  storms  that  sweep 

The  human  soul— 

Those  hidden  tempests 

Of  the  inner  life — 

Comes  forth  the  lofty  calm 

Of  self-control. 

Peace  after  war.     Although 

The  heart  may  txi  trampled 

And  plowed  like  a  torn  battle  field, 

Rich  are  the  fruits  that  follow  victory, 

And  the  battle  grounds 

The  fullest  harvests  yield. 

Strong  grows  his  arm  who  breasts 

A  downward  stream, 

And  stem  $  with  steady  stroke 

The  mighty  tide 

Of  his  own  passions.    Sore 

The  wrench  may  seem, 

But  only  lie  is  strong 

Whose  strength  is  tried. 

To  toil  is  hard,  to  lay 
Aside  the  oar, 
To  softly  rise  and  fall 
With  passion's  swell. 
Is  easier  far.    But  when 
The  dream  is  o'er 
The  bitterness  of  waking 
None  can  tell. 


WALLS  OF  CORN  AND  OTHER  POEMS.  229 

To  float  at  ease,  by  sleepy 

Zephyrs  fanned, 

Is  but  to  grow  more  feeble 

Day  by  day; 

While  slips  life's  little  hour 

Out,  sand  by  sand, 

And  strength  and  hope  together 

Waste  away. 

He  only  wins  who  sets 
His  thews  of  steele 
With  tighter  tensions  for 
The  prick  of  pain; 
Who  wearies,  yet  stands  fast: 
Whose  patient  zeal 
Welcomes  the  present  loss 
For  future  gain. 

Toil  before  ease;  the  cross 
Before  the  crown. 
Who  covets  rest,  he  ttrst 
Must  earn  the  boom. 
He  who  at  night  in  peace 
Would  lay  him  down. 
Must  bear  his  load  amid 
The  heats  of  noon. 


On  the  Farm. 

How  sweet  to  lean  on  Nature's  arm, 

And  jog  through  life  upon  the  farm! 

Merchants  and  brokers  spread  and  dash 

A  little  while,  then  go  to  smash; 

But  we  can  keep  from  day  to  day, 

The  even  tenor  of  our  way. 

(There  go  those  horses!    Quick,  John!  catch  'em! 

They'll  break  their  necks!    You  didn't  hitch  'em!) 


230  WALLS  OF  CORN  AND  OTHER  POEMS. 

I  low  clear  and  shrill  the  ploughboy's  son>j, 

A--  merrily  he  jo^s  along! 

The  playful  breeze  about  him  whirls. 

And  tosses  wide  his  yellow  curls. 

His  hands  are  brown,  his  cheeks  are  red — 

Au  ever  blooming  flower  bed. 

I  Hspoiled  by  crowds,  unvexed  by  care — 

(Goodness,  do  hear  the  urchin  swear!) 

How  soft  the  summer  showers  fall 
On  field  and  garden,  cheering  all; 
How  bright,  in  woods,  the  diamond  sheen 
Of  rain-drops  strung  on  threads  of  green — 
Each  oak  a  King,  with  jewelled  crown. 
(The  wind  has  blown  the  haystack  down! 
I  knew  'twould  hail,  it  got  so  warm. 
That  fence  is  flat— my!  what  a  storm  I 

How  soft  the  hazy  summer  night! 
On  dewy  grass  the  moon's  pale  light 
Rests  dreamily.    It  falls  in  town, 
On  smoky  roofs  and  pavements  brown. 
How  tenderly,  when  nigbt  is  gone, 
Breaks  o'er  the  fields  the  summer  dawn! 
How  sweet  and  pare  the  scented  morn — 
(Get  up!    Old  Molly's  in  the  corn!) 

Far  from  the  city's  dust  and  broil, 
We  women  sing  at  household  toil, 
Nor  scorn  to  work  with  hardened  hands. 
We  laugh  at  fashion's  bars  and  bands, 
And  on  our  cheeks  wear  Nature's  rose — 
(That  calf  is  nibbling  at  my  clothes! 
Off  she  goes  at  double  shuffle, 
Chewing  down  my  finest  ruffle!) 

We  workers,  in  our  loom  of  life, 
Far  from  the  city's  din  and  strife, 


WALLS  OF  CORN  AND  OTHER  POEMS.  231 


Weave  many  a  soft,  poetic  rose, 
With  patient  hand,  through  warp  of  prose. 
We  love  our  labor  more  and  more, 
(John!  here!  these  pigs  are  at  the  door! 
They've  burst  the  sty,  and  scaled  the  wall- 
There  goes  my  kettle,  soap  and  all!) 


Pity  Her. 

No  sleep,  no  rest!  the  night  drags  slowly  by: 
The  peaceful  moonbeams  fall  athwart  the  floor; 

The  cool  wind  steals  in  softly,  and  the  sky 
Curtains  soft  sleep,  but  she — she  sleeps  no  more! 

She  sleeps  no  more.    A  tossing  sea  of  pain 
Lashed  into  madness,  rolls  its  swollen  tide 

Like  red-hot  lava,  through  her  heart  and  brain; 
And  at  her  feet  a  dark  gulf  opens  wide. 

O  sisters  pity!    Other,  lower  deeps 
Yawn  to  engulf  her—  will  ye  thrust  her  down 

Into  their  seething  depths?    Look  how  she  weeps, 
And  will  ye  drive  her  mad  with  your  sold  frown? 

O  woman,  take  thy  foot  from  off  her  neck ! 

Uncurl  thy  lip  of  scorn!    Drop  but  one  tear 
Of  sweet  compassion  for  the  mournful  wreck 

Of  the  youth  and  loveliness  that  crouches  here! 

Knew  ye  what  writhing  serpents  of  remorse 
Twist  their  sharp  fangs  amid  her  tangled  hair— 

Knew  ye  her  agony  beneath  the  curse 
That  rests  on  her  young  head,  so  hard  to  bear— 

Ye  could  not  to  the  tempter  turn  and  smile; 

And  with  a  cruel  foot  the  tempted  spurn! 
Ye  could  not  kiss  the  hand  that  struck,  the  while 

Ye  scathe  the  victim  with  your  heartless  scorn! 


WALLS  OF  CORN  AND  OTHER  POKMS. 


Once,  long  ago,  in  a  self-righteous  crowd, 
Far  back  ward,  many  along-lapsed  century, 

Stood  One  who  pitied  and  forgave  —  ye,  proud 
In  untired  strength,  are  ye  more  pure  than  He? 


Day  by  Day. 

Thou  askest  what  may  my  mission  be, 
And  what  great  work  am  I  bound  to  do; 

Alas!  I  cannot  unfold  to  thee 
The  work  of  a  day  till  that  day  be  throngh. 

I  know  not  at  night  what  awaits  at  morn; 

I  know  not  at  morn  what  the  noon  shall  bring; 
Nor  know,  till  the  eve  its  fruit  has  borne, 

What  the  twilight  folds  in  its  dusky  wing. 

I  purpose  and  plan,  but  cannot  dispose; 

The  work  I  would  do  slips  through  my  hands; 
I  am  given  a  task  that  I  never  chose: 

And  my  strength  is  fettered  by  bars  and  bands. 

1  purpose  and  plan,  yet  blindly  go, 
Doubtful  whither;  to  reach  my  end 

I  sturdily  toil,  yet  well  I  know 
To  the  will  of  events  my  will  must  bend. 

I  would  build  me  a  tower,  with  lordly  walls, 
On  a  lofty  rock  that  o'ertops  the  lands; 

But,  ere  it  is  finished,  my  structure  falls, 
For  the  rock  has  crumbled  to  shifting  sands. 

I  have  woven  a  web  with  the  toil  of  years; 

I  have  laid  it  by,  forgetting  the  moth: 
And  I  thread  my  needle  and  sharpen  my  slit  a i^: 

But  lo!  the  worms  have  eaten  the  cloth. 


WALLS  OF  CORN  AND  OTHER  POEMS.  233 

'Still  I  then  do  naught;  shall  I  sit  in  sloth, 
Because  has  tumbled  my  lordly  tower? 

And  because  the  worms  have  eaten  my  cloth — 
Scorning  the  calls  of  the  present  hour? 

If,  day  by  day.  while  keen  desire 
Pants  for  the  work  that  is  great  and  grand, 

Some  small,  sweet  task  by  the  household-fire 
Mutely  appeals  to  my  brain  and  hand, 

Shall  I  then  complain?    Shall  I  turn  away, 

Closing  my  heart  to  the  tender  call? 
And  leave  undone  the  work  of  to-day, 
.  Because  it  is  humble,  unseen,  and  small? 

Nay;  for,  better  than  sounding  name, 
And  better  than  riches,  that  rot  and  rust, 

And  better  than  glistening  wreathes  of  fame, 
That  wither,  and  crumble,  and  fall  to  dust, 

Are  the  blessings  that  come  to  me,  one  by  one, 

The  peaceful  joys  that  enter  my  gate. 
If  I  do  my  duty  from  sun  to  sun, 

Be  it  lowly  or  high,  be  it  small  or  great. 

The  sweet,  glad  smile  in  a  loved  one's  eye, 
The  tender  cadence  of  household-tones, 

Are  better  than  crowns  of  the  great  and  high; — 
For  to  live  on  pride  is  to  feed  on  stones. 


234  WALLS  OF  CORN  AND  OTHER  POEMS. 


September. 

'Tis  autumn  in  our  northern  land. 
The  summer  walks  a  queen  no  more: 
Her  sceptre  drops  from  out  her  hand; 
Her  strength  is  spent,  her  passion  o'er. 
On  lake  and  stream,  on  field  and  town, 
The  placid  sun  smiles  calmly  down. 

The  teeming  earth  its  fruit  has  borne; 
The  grain  fields  lie  all  shorn  and  bare; 
And  where  the  serried  ranks  of  corn 
Wave  proudly  in  the  summer  air, 
And  bravely  tossed  their  yellow  locks, 
Now  thickly  stands  the  bristling  shocks. 

On  sunny  slope,  on  crannied  wall 
The  grapes  hang  purpling  in  the  sun: 
Down  to  the  turf  the  brown  nuts  fall, 
And  golden  apples,  one  by  one. 
Our  bins  run  o'er  with  ample  store  — 
Thus  autumn  reaps  what  summer  bore. 

The  mill  turns  by  the  waterfall: 

The  loaded  wagons  go  and  come; 

All  day  I  hear  the  teamster's  call. 

All  day  I  hear  the  threshers  hum; 

And  many  a  shout  and  many  a  laugh 

Comes  breaking  through  the  clouds  of  chaff. 

Gay,  careless  sounds  of  homely  toil  I 

With  mirth  and  labor  closely  bent 

The  weary  tiller  of  the  soil 

Wins  seldom  wealth,  but  oft  content. 

'Tis  better  still  if  he  but  knows 

What  sweet,  wild  beauty  round  him  glows. 


WALLS  OF  CORN  AND  OTHER  POEMS.  335 

Tlie  brook  glides  toward  the  sleeping  lake— 
Now  babbling  over  sinning  stones; 
Now  under  clumps  of  bush  and  brake, 
Hushing  its  brawl  to  murmuring  tones; 
And  now  it  takes  its  winding  path 
Through  meadows  green  with  aftermath. 

The  frosty  twilight  early  falls, 
But  household  fires  burn  warm  and  red. 
The  cold  may  creep  without  the  walls, 
And  growing  things  lie  stark  and  dead — 
No  matter,  so  the  hearth  be  bright 
When  household  faces  meet  to-night. 


Probably  Not. 

My  ships  may  come  in  from  the  sea, 
Laden  with  wealth  untold, 
And  bringing  it  all  to  me — 
Spices,  and  pearls,  and  gold, 

In  many  a  rich  ingot — 

But — probably  not. 

The  castles  I  build  in  Spain, 
That  a  breath  so  topples  o'er, 
And  which  daily  Irear  again, 
May  stand,  and  fall  no  more — 

By  destroying  winds  forgot — 

But— probably  not. 

I  may  find  the  shackles  of  care 
That  fetter  my  aching  wing, 
While  I  long  to  cleave  the  air, 
And  wildly  to  soar  and  sing, 

Lifted  from  off  my  lot — 

But — probably  not. 


236  WALLS  OF  CORN  AND  OTHER  POEMS. 

The  heights  to  which  I  aspire— 
I  may  reach  them  by  and  by; 
And  that  which  I  most  desire — 
I  may  clasp  it  before  I  die, 

With  the  longing  and  pain  forgot— 

But— probably  not. 

I  may  find  on  life's  battle  field, 
Ere  the  going  down  of  the  sun, 
A  place  to  lay  down  my  shield, 
With  the  struggle  over  and  done — 
Some  peaceful  and  sheltered  spot- 
But— probably  not. 

I  may  find  how,  without  loss, 
I  can  lay  my  burdens  down; 
Some  way  to  elude  the  cross, 
And  yet  to  deserve  the  crown 

Which  falls  to  the  conqueror's  lot- 
But— probably  not. 


WALLS  OF  CORN  AMD  OTHER  POEMS.  237 


Spinning  Tow. 

A  little  maiden  with  braided  hair 

Walks  to  and  fro 
Before  a  wheel.    What  does  she  there? 

The  child  is  spinning  tow. 

In  through  the  open  window  comes 

The  scented  breeze; 
With  drowsy  wing  the  wild  bee  hums 

Out  in  the  orchard  trees. 

The  blue  sky  bends,  the  flowers  are  sweet, 

As  children  know; 
Yet  with  deft  hands  and  steady  feet, 

This  child  keeps  spinning  tow, 

Still  works  she;  steady  mounts  the  sun 
Through  the  skies  of  May, — 

The  small  task  ends;  the  skein  is  spun; 
The  girl  bounds  out  to  play. 

She  learns  life's  lesson  young  you  say? 

'Tis  better  so. 
That  life  is  toil  as  well  as  play, 

She  learns  here  spinning  tow. 

Years  pass.    Beside  her  own  hearthstone 

A  woman  stands 
With  steady  eye  and  cheerful  tone, 

Brave  heart  and  willing  hands. 

This  matron,  who  on  household  ways 

Glides  to  and  fro, 
Learned  when  a  child,  on  soft  spring  days, 

Life's  lesson,  spinning  tow. 


238  WALLS  OF  CORN  AXD  OTHER  PoKMS. 


A  Summer  Night. 

The  twilight  ends;  the  last  faint  crimson  stain 

Has  faded  from  the  west;  the  deep  blue  sky 
Deeper  and  darker  grows:  and  once  again 

God's  lamps  are  lighted  in  the  dome  on  high. 
Above  yon  oak-crowned  hill,  whose  trailing  clouds 

Hung  low  and  slack  at  noon, 

Now,  round  and  red,  from  out  their  torn  white  shrouds, 
Steps  forth  the  harvest  moon. 

Thus  she  cam:?  forth  la  it  ni^lit:  thus  will  sh3  come, 

The  next  night  and  the  next.    Oh,  magic  time! 
The  full  moon  wanes  not  at  the  harvest  home. 
And  night's  grand  poem  Mows  in  even  rhyme. 
The  grain  is  gathered;  hills  of  tawny  gold 

Begem  the  earth's  shorn  breast. 
Hard  hands  are  folded;  summer's  tale  is  told; 
The  sickle  lies  in  rest. 

The  night  has  wondrous  voices.    At  my  door, 

I  sit  and  listen  to  its  many  tones. 
The  wind  comes  through  the  woods  with  muffled  roar, 

The  brook  goes  rippling  on  its  bedded  stones. 
I  hear  the  raccoons  call  among  the  corn, 

The  night-hawk's  lonely  cry; 
A  dismal  owl  sends  out  his  note  forlorn, 
One  whip-po-will  sings  nigh. 

And  there  are  other  voices;  all  the  grass 

Is  psopled  with  a  crowd  of  tiny  things, 
We  see  thsm  not,  yet  crush  them  as  we  pa>-: 

These  sing  all  night,  and  clap  their  puny  wings. 
Beneath  my  very  feet,  calls  clear  and  strong, 

A  cricket,  slyly  hid; 

While  at  my  elbow— well  I  know  his  song- 
Rattles  a  katydid. 


WALLS  OF  CORN  AND  OTHER  POEMS.  239 

Poor,  puny  things!  your  gala  nears  its  end — 

There  comes  a  hint  of  Autumn  in  the  wind 
That  bends  the  tassled  corn;  the  night  grows  chill; 
Short,  and  yet  shorter,  grows  each  passing  day; 

The  year  is  waxing  old. 
The  frost  waits  in  the  north,  not  far  away; — 
The  summer's  tale  is  told. 


Knitting. 

An  old-time  kitchen,  an  open  door, 

Sunshine  lying  across  the  floor; 

A  little  maid,  feet  bare  and  brown, 

Cheeks  like  roses,  a  cotton  gown, 

Rippling  masses  of  shining  hair, 

And  a  childish  forehead  smooth  and  fair. 

The  child  is  knitting.    The  open  door 
Wooes  her,  tempts  her,  more  and  more. 
The  sky  is  cloudless,  the  air  is  sweet 
And  sadly  restless  the  bare  brown  feet. 
Still,  as  she  wishes  her  task  were  done, 
She  counts  the  rounds  off,  one  by  one. 

Higher  yet  mounts  the  sun  of  June; 
But  one  round  more!— a  joyous  tune 
Ripples  out  from  the  childish  lips, 
While  swift  and  swifter  the  finger-tips 
Play  out  and  in,  till  I  hear  her  say, 
"Twenty  rounds!  I'm  going  to  play!" 

Up  to  the  hedge  where  the  sweet-brier  blows, 
Down  to  the  bank  where  the  brooklet  flows, 
Chasing  the  butterflies,  watching  the  bees, 
Wading  in  clover  up  to  her  knees, 
Mocking  the  bobolinks;  oh,  what  fun 
It  is  to  be  free  when  the  task  is  done! 


240  WALLS  OF  CORN  AND  OTHER  POEMS. 

Years  and  years  have  glided  away. 

The  child  is  a  woman,  and  threads  of  gray 

One  by  one  creep  into  her  hair. 

And  I  see  the  prints  of  the  feet  of  care. 

Yet  I  like  to  watch  har.    To-night  she  sits 

By  her  household  fire,  and  as  then  she  knits. 

Swiftly  the  needles  glance,  and  the  thread 
Glides  through  her  fingers,  white  and  red. 
'Tis  a  baby's  stocking.    To  and  fro 
And  out  and  in  as  the  needles  go, 
She  sings  as  she  sang  that  day  in  June, 
But  the  low,  soft  strain  is  a  nursery  tune. 

Closely  beside  her  the  baby  lies, 
Slowly  clo.jing  his  sleepy  eyes. 
Forward,  backward,  the  cradle  swings, 
Touched  by  her  foot  as  she  softly  sin«,rs. 
And  now  i.i  sils.ica  har  watch  she  keeps; 
The  song  i.s  hushed,  for  the  baby  sleeps. 

Up  from  the  green,  through  the  twilight  gray, 
Comes  the  shouts  of  a  troop  at  play. 
Blue  eyes,  black  eyes,  golden  curls - 
These  are  all  hers—  herboys  and  girls. 
Then  wonder  not  at  the  prints  of  care, 
Or  the  silver  threads  in  her  braided  hair. 

Does  she  ever  pine  for  the  meadow  brook. 
The  sweet-brier  hedge,  the  clover  nook? 
When  sweet  winds  woo,  when  smiles  the  sun, 
Does  she  ever  wish  that  her  task  Was  done? 
Would  you  know?    Than  watch  her  whsra  she  sits 
Smiling  dreamily,  while  she  knits. 


WALLS  OF  CORN  AND  OTHER  POEMS.  241 


Old  Letters. 

Maiden  at  her  window  sitting, 

With  her  long  forgotten  knitting 
Lying  idle  when  it  fell  upon  the  floor; 

She  is  thinking,  she  is  dreaming, 

And  her  eyes  with  tears  are  streaming, 
As  she  reads  a  pile  of  letters  o'er  and  o:er. 

Every  sheet  is  closely  written, 

And  each  page  illumed,  love  litten, 
Breathing  passion,  hope  and  air  of  noble  deeds; 

Every  line  is  manly,  tender, 

Wherefore  then  these  sobs  that  rend  tier? 
Why  these  bitter  tears  that  blind  her  as  she  reads? 

Why?    Alas!  the  pen  is  rusted, 

Lying  useless,  damp,  encrusted, 
Where  it  fell  from  pallid  hands  that  write  no  more; 

And  the  postman,  passing  daily, 

Sees  no  more  the  maiden  gayly, 
Smiling,  waiting  for  her  letter  at  the  door. 

He  is  dead,  that  manly  lover, 

And  the  snows  of  winter  cover 
Pallid  brow  and  pulseless  breast  as  cold  as  they; 

And  she  thinks,  that  stricken  maiden— 

With  her  youth  thus  sorrow-laden, 
That  her  heart  is  dead  and  withered  in  its  May. 


She  has  learned  to  love  another — 

More  than  friend  and  more  than  brother — 
(All  those  letters  have  turned  yellow  long  ago); 

There's  a  baby's  laughter  ringing, 

As  she  clasps  him,  smiling,  singing; — 
She  has  learned  the  throbbing  bliss  that  mothers  know. 


242  WALLS  OF  CORN  AND  OTHER  POEMS. 

Yet  she  keeps  those  letters  hidden, 

And  her  heart  still  throbs  unchidden 
If  she  chance  to  touch  the  casket  where  they  lie: 

And  she  enters  all  undaunted, 

To  a  chamber  shadow-haunted, 
Which  no  other,  now  or  ever,  cometh  nigh. 

She  is  happy  now,  and  sweeter 

Are  the  smiles  that  daily  greet  her, 
Than  was  ever  aught  that  haunted  chamber  keeps; 

But  let  once  her  peace  ba  broken, 

And  let  bitter  words  be  spoken — 
She  will  read  those  yellow  letters  while  she  weeps. 


Greenleaf. 

'Twas  midnight  in  a  country  town, 
Through  old,  dim  trees  the  moon's  cold  light 

On  sloping  eaves  and  roofs  of  brown 
Dropped  trembling  bare  of  silver  white. 

The  village  slept.     Love  nestled  close 

In  clasping  arms,  and  on  the  breast 
Of  weary  care,  in  deep  repose, 

Tired  hands  lay  folded  and  at  rest. 

The  village  slept,  and  sleeping,  dreamed; 

But  one  low  roof,  with  moss  grown  wall, 
Through  whose  bare  panes  the  moonlight  streamed, 

Field  one  who  slept  nor  dreamed  at  all. 

A  hermit,  on  a  village  street. 

Long  had  he  dwelt,  unloved,  alone; 
Closed  was  his  door  to  passing  feet; 

Only  a  dog  to  share  his  bone. 


WALLS  OF  CORN  AND  OTHER  POEMS. 


And  while  that  night  the  village  slept, 

A  colder  and  a  deeper  sleep 
At  midnight  to  his  pillow  crept; 

With  none  to  watch  and  none  to  weep. 

Morn  came,  and  noon,  and  passers  by 
Began  to  wonder  more  and  more; 

What  ailed  the  dog— so  piteously 
He  moaned  and  howled  beside  the  door. 

They  forced  the  lock  at  last,  and  then 
The  sunlight  streamed  across  the  dead. 

Brown  cheeks  grew  pale,  and  stalwart  men 
Walked  homeward  with  a  heavy  tread. 

Greenleaf  is  dead ! " — the  whisper  went 
From  street  to  street.     A  solemn  knell 

Peals  mournfully;  all  stand  attent, 
But  no  one  weeps,  while  sobs  the  bell. 

No  sister,  wife,  no  child,  no  friend! 

No  eyes  with  tender  tears  grow  dim. 
A  lonely  life — a  lonely  end; 

What  matter?    It  is  naught  to  him. 

Again  the  village  sleeps — the  bell 
Hangs  speechless  as  the  breathless  night: 

Yet  awe-struck  watchers,  whispering,  tell 
Weird  tales  beside  a  form  in  white. 


WALLS  OF  CORN  AND  OTHER  POEMS. 


Only  a  Woman. 

Only  a  woman,  shriveled  and  old, 

The  prey  of  the  winds,  and  the  prey  of  the  cold! 

Cheeks  that  are  shrunken, 

Eyes  that  are  sunken, 

Lips  that  were  never  o'erbold; 
Only  a  woman:  forsaken  and  poor, 
Asking  an  alms  at  the  bronze  church-door. 

Hark  to  the  organ!  roll  upon  roll 

The  waves  oMts  music  go  over  the  soul  ! 

Silks  rustle  past  her 

Thicker  and  faster; 

The  great  bell  ceases  its  toll. 
Fain  would  she  enter,  but  not  for  the  poor 
Swingeth  wide  open  the  bronze  church  door. 

Only  a  woman— waiting  alone, 
Icily  cold  on  an  ice-cold  throne. 

What  do  they  care  for  her, 

Mumbling  a  prayer  for  her, 

(Jiving  not  bread  but  a  stone. 
1'iider  gold  laces  Llieir  haughty  hearts  beat, 
Mocking  the  woes  oi  their  kin  in  the  street. 

Only  a  woman!    In  the  older  days 
Hope  carroled  to  her  in  happiest  lays; 

Somebody  missed  her, 

Somebody  kissed  her, 

Somebody  crowned  her  with  praise; 
Somebody  faced  up  the  battles  of  life. 
Strong  for  her  sake  who  was  mother  or  wife. 

Somebody  lies  with  a  tress  of  her  hair 

Li..?ht  on  his  heart  where  the  death-shadows  an-: 


-  -T" 


"Treeless  Desert,"  they  called  it  then, 
Haunted  by  beasts  and  forsook  by  men. 


WALLS  OF  CORN  AND  OTHER  POEMS.  245 

Somebody  waits  for  her, 

Opening  the  gates  for  her, 

Giving  delight  for  despair. 
Only  a  woman — nevermore  poor — 
Dead  in  the  snow  at  the  bronze  church-door. 


Haunted. 

There  stood  a  goodly  house— I  knew  it  well, — 
Built  like  a  palace,  with  fair,  stately  halls, 
Where  all  things  pure  and  beautiful  did  dwell, 

And  sat  at  peace  within  its  lovely  walls. 
Arid  oft  a  voice,  tuned  like  a  sweet-toned  bell, 
In  strains  of  throbbing  music  rose  and  fell. 

A  home  of  harmonies— a  gentle  throng! 
A  home  of  rest  and  peace;  and  yet  there  came  — 
Sudden  and  swift  and  dark— a  day  of  shame. 

Henceforth  an  end  of  peace,  an  end  of  song. 
Henceforth  a  crowd  of  demons  come  and  go, 
And  range  all  the  chambers,  high  and  low. 

The  house  is  haunted.    Shadows  dark  as  night, 
With  ghostly  footfalls  stalk  from  room  to  room; 
Arid  voices  doleful  as  the  cries  of  doom, 

Shriek  in  the  darkness,  then  anon  a  light 
Flashes  athwart  the  windows,  fierce  and  fell, 
And  red  and  lurid  as  the  flames  of  hell. 

Alas!  the  wreck,  the  ruin  that  befalls! 

Alas!  the  shaking,  crumbling,  and  decay! 
The  very  vines  let  go  the  tottering  walls; 

The  very  dogs  take  flight  and  flee  away, 
Appalled  by  sounds  and  sights  so  strange  and  dire- 
Tlie  shrieks,  the  laughter,  and  the  lurid  flre. 


WALLS  OF  CORN  AND  OTHER  POEMS. 

An  awful  thing  of  terror,  weird  and  wild; 
A  thing  to  gaze  upon  in  speechless  fear, 
And  yet  to  wring  perforce  the  pitying  tear. 

This  stately  palace,  ruined  and  defiled, 

Waxing  more  foul  and  ghastly  year  by  year; 

Where  peace  and  purity  lie  prone  and  slain;— 

This  haunted  house—  is  but  a  crazed  brain. 


Farmer  Junes  un  Corn. 

How's  corn  to-day  ma'am?    And  why  should  you    wish  to 

know? 

Do  such  thing.?  bother  a  woman?    Well,  it  is  low. 
I'm  posted  —you  see  1  have  been  with  a  load  to  town. 
It  is  weak,  as  they  say  in  reports,  and  it's  going  down. 

Hard  times  for  farmers  like  me— and  with  rent  so  high! 
The  chinch  buj$  com,}  like  an  army,  the  summer  was  dry; 
It  was  scorching  drouth  and  the  chinch  bug,  and  now  it  is 

the  bears: 
And  that  takes  me  down  to  Ir.ird  pan,  but— who  dares? 

"Hold  on  to  your  corn/'  say  the  papers,  I  would  if  I  could. 
For  those  who  can  take  this  advice,  the  advice  is  good. 
But  I've  got  to  sell  for  there  is  the  rent  to  pay. 
And  other  debts  falling  due — I've  been  dunned  to-day. 

1  promise  to  pay,  I  find  is  a  master  stern. 
And  it's  not  for  me  to  wait  for  the  tide  to  rise. 
To  sell  at  the  ebb,  when  so  little  there  is  to  sell, 
Seems  rather  rough,  but  the  buyers- they  like  it  well. 

The  rich  grow  richer,  the  poor  man  grows  poorer  still, 
For  if  things  get  to  going  wrong  it's  all  down  hill. 
He  must  sell  for  whatever  the  buyer  may  choose  to  i>;iy. 
And  of  prices  of  things  he  buys  has  nothing  to  say. 


WALLS  OF  CORN  AND  OTHER  POEMS. 


It  is  hard  to  be  poor.     Would  the  greedy  rich  but  think 
Of  the  sweat  and  toil  that  earned  the  gold  they  chink. 
I  fancy  that  pins  would  be  stuck  in  their  beds  of  down, 
And  their  ill-gotten  wealth  would  prick  likea  thorny  crown. 

It  is  hard  to  be  poor;  but  I'd  rather  be  poor  than  own 
The  wealth  that  some  men  squeeze  out  of  blood  and  bone. 
If  the  bed  is  hard  where  I  gather  my  weary  feet, 
No  specters  haunt  my  pillow  and  my  sleep  is  sweet. 

I  am  growing  old  and  my  hair  is  growing  gray; 

I  have  done  a  deal  of  work  for  but  little  pay; 

But  I  hope  for  the  best— there  are  some  who  see  these 

things. 
And  who  speak  for  the  farmers  in  spite  of  moneyed  kings. 

I've  made  a  good  deal  of  talk,  ma'am  -but  that's  my  way — 
To  answer  your  simple  question,  "Flow's  corn  to-day?" 
I  wisli  that  the  great  might  hear  and  understand 
That  the  good  of  the  working  man  is  the  good  of  the  land. 


Old  Flames. 

We  labor  and  live  in  the  same  old  town, 
We  traverse  the  same,  same  street; 

We  seldom  smile,  and  never  frown 
As  perchance  our  footsteps  meet: — 

A  gentle  nod — a  wave  of  the  hand — 
Is  our  greeting,  quite  proper  and  neat. 

Yet  once,  my  life  of  life  was  she, 

Her  ideal  of  a  man  seemed  I, 
As  together  we  pictured  a  destiny 

Whose  dawn  was  the  bright  by-and-by;- 
The  bright  by-and-by,  now  far  in  our  rear, 

Stretched  out  between  Inerz  and  I. 


J4s  WALLS  OF  CORN  AND  OTHER  POKMS. 

Time  changed  us  both  in  a  single  year, — 

And  we  do  nof  regret  it  now; 
We  changed,  but  why?  't  is  as  yet  unclear — 

We  changed,  and  scarcely  know  how. 
Forgotten  were  all  the  dreams  we  dreamt, 

Our  hopes  our  plighted  vow. 

Sombre  and  matter  of  fact  we  look, 
As  we  follow  our  duties  about; 

Covers,  we  seem,  of  an  old,  old  book 
Whose  pages  are  lost  and  torn  out; — 

The  leaves  have  twirled  away  in  the  wind, 
All  tattered  and  sadly  worn  out. 

Thus  we  labor  and  live  in  the  same  old  town, 
And  traverse  the  same,  same  street; 

Hardly  a  smile,  but  never  a  frown, 
As  perchance  our  footsteps  meet;— 

A  kindly  nod— a  wave  of  the  hand— 
'Tis  our  greeting  all  proper  and  neat. 


After  the  Wedding. 

The  guests  are  gone, — the  pageantry 

Has  vanished  like  some  brilliant  dream; 
The  lamps  are  out— on  thee  and  me 

Only  the  moonlight  sheds  its  gleam. 
In  this  sweet  hour— all  else  forgot 
Save  love— for  us  the  world  is  not; 

Naught  reck  we  of  its  praise  or  curse. 
Thou  art,  and  I;  and  we  two  stand 
Within  a  sweet  enchantment  land, 

Alone  amid  the  Universe. 

All  will  come  back,— the  busy  throng, 
Discordant  voices,  jostling  feet, — 

And  waves  of  trouble,  swift  and  strong-, 
Against  our  walls  shall  break  and  beat. 


WALLS  OF  CORN  AND  OTHER  POEMS.  249 

But  not  to-niglit, — no,  not  to-night! 
As  sleeps  yon  lake,  so  calm,  so  bright, 

Xo  rippling  on  its  shining  breast, 
So  sleeps  all  thought  of  future  ill; 
We  only  feel  the  throb  and  thrill 

That  stirs  two  hearts  when  fully  blest. 

I  give  thee  all,  dear  love,  and  so 

I  learn  the  rarest  bliss  of  living, 
The  purest  rapture  mortals  know,— 

The  joy  ineffable  of  giving. 
'Tis  thine  for  aye;  a  stream  so  deep 
Can  never  flow  with  backward  sweep; 

No  drought  can  shrink  its  living  tide, — 
Unless,  unless  thine  eye  grow  cold, 
And  thy  strong  arm  its  tender  fold 

Unclasp,  to  spurn  me  from  thy  side. 

That  cannot  be.    Thy  tenderness, 

Thy  thrilling  glance,  thy  gentle  tone, 
Thy  watchful  care,  thy  dear  caress,— 

These  are— they  will  be— all  my  own. 
They  say  that  love's  a  torrent's  dash, 
A  sudden  fire,  a  meteor-flash, 

That  blazes  and  then  dies  away. 
Believe  it  not.    True  love's  a  sun. 
That  steadily,  till  life  is  done, 

Shines  on  and  on,  with  quenchless  ray. 


250  WALLS  OP  CORN  AND  OTHER  POK.MS. 


The  Farther  Shore. 

The  night  is  long  and  lonely,  and  we  wait 
With  silent  watchfulness,  with  sleepless  fears, 

For  One  who  shall  unlock  the  shining  gate, 
And  end  the  darkness  of  this  night  of  tears. 

Before  us,  through  the  gloom,  a  river  rut  IN. 

With  silent  tide,  forever  dark  and  chill; 
Reflecting  no  white  moons  or  golden  suns, 

Tossed  by  no  waves— so  ghastly,  calm  and  still! 

No  murmuring  ripple  and  no  friendly  roar 
Warns,  in  the  darkness,  of  the  dangerous  brink. 

We  know  not,  ever,  whither  lies  the  shore, 
Nor  at  what  moment  we  may  slip  and  sink. 

Close  at  our  feet  may  be  these  waters  wide — 
So  we  grope  darkly,  and  one  footfall  more 

May  be  a  leap  into  the  swallowing  tide, 

Where  countless  thousands  have  gone  down  before. 

A  chilling  plunge— an  end  of  life's  swift  dream — 
And  still  the  river  shall  flow  calmly  on, 

As  silent  as  before.  Oh,  ruthless  stream! 
So  cold  and  pitiless  thy  waters  run! 

Yet  this  dark  river  has  another  shore, 
And  yonder,  yonder  is  the  golden  gate! 

A  flood  of  light  shall  break  these  waters  o'er, 
When  He  unlocks  it— He,  for  whom  we  wait. 

Then  shall  the  sleepers  wake.  The  hungry  tide, 
His  dead  shall  gather  to  his  arms  no  more. 

The  glad  and  glorious  throng,  cleansed,  purified. 
Shall  stand  in  white  upon  the  farther  shore. 


WALLS  OF  CORN  AND  OTHER  POEMS.  251 


To  Emma,  On  Her  Wedding  Day. 

Dear  friend,  I  will  not  wish  you  perfest  joy; 

That  comes  not  on  this  earth.    No  mortal  drinks 
An  unmixed  cup;  all  good  has  much  alloy; 

And  life's  long  chain  must  have  some  iron  links. 

I  wish,  instead,  that  you  may  know  the  peace — 
The  steady  calm— that  comes  of  duty  done. 

The  best  springs  feed,  not  torrents,  soon  to  cease, 
But  summer  rills,  that  through  dry  weather  run. 

Life  hath  its  poetry,  run  how  it  may; — 
I  need  not  tell  you  that  it  hath  its  prose. 

Your  feet  may  bleed,— for  thorns  grow  in  the  way — 
But  every  thorn,  remember,  bears  its  rose. 

Shut  not  your  eyes,  but  turn  them  toward  the  light, 
E'en  when  it  struggles  down  in  cloudy  bars. 

Dark  days  may  come,  and  deepen  into  night;— 
Oh,  then  look  up,  and  you  shall  see  the  stars! 

Thus,  he  whose  hand  you  take  to  climb  life's  hill, 
Shall  find  you  at  his  side  a  presence  sweet, 

Giving,  when  needed,  firmness  to  his  will, 
Strength  to  his  arm,  and  fleetness  to  his  feet. 

Would  you  do  more'?  no  need  to  scour  the  land 
For  work  to  do;  work  of  your  own  will  come. 

She  who  wants  labor,  rinds  it  at  her  hand; 
She  who  hath  aught  to  say,  need  not  be  dumb. 

I  think  you  will  be  strong— I  know  you  well;— 
I  think  that  you  will  seek  to  do  the  best 

You  find  to  do — yet  what,  I  cannot  tell. 
Do  it,  be  true,  and  leave  to  God  the  rest. 


252  WALLS  OF  CORN  AND  OTHER  POEMS. 

Wooing. 

A   COUNTRY   BALLAD. 

There  is  a  worthy  widower,  one  of  our  "solid  men", 
And  he  was  born  and  bred— I  can't  tell  where  or  when:— 
But  he  lives  near  by  the  "Ancient  City,"  Aztalan, 
Which  has  stood   beside  the  Crawfish  since  the  memory  of 
man. 

He  has  built  himself  a  castle  with  many  a  point  and  stee 
ple, 

Which,  through  all  the  country  round,  is  the  wonder  of  the 
people: 

He  has  built  himself  a  barn  with  a  lofty  "cupalo", 

Where  painted  beasts  look  down  on  the  living  ones  below. 

But  this  dweller  by  the  Crawfish,  in  the  town  of  Aztalan, 
For  all  his  Gothic  Castle,  is  a  very  lonely  man; 
For  a  house  without  a  mistress  is  a  hive  without  a  queen, 
And  he  sighs  with  discontent  as  he  views  his  acres  green. 

He  wants  a  wife;  bat  all  in  v.iiu  for  him  the  widow  smiles: 
ID  vain  the  well-kept  spinster  may  try  her  sweetest  wiles; 
He  looks  among  the  maidens  with  rosy  cheeks,  and  curls. 
And  seeks  to  find  his  queen  from  among  the  village  girls. 

And  now  begins  my  story,  which  is  too  good  to  keep; 
I've  heard  it  here  so  often  that  I  hear  it  in  my  sleep; 
What  all  the  gossips  know,  it  can't  be  wrong  to  tell, 
So  here  is  what  did  happen,  and  this  is  what  befell: 

This  solid,  landed  man,  who  wants  a  better  half, 

One  day  had  been  somewhere  and  bought  a  blooded  calf; 

He  had  it  in  his  wagon,  likewise  his  hired  man, 

And  he  had  his  horses  headed  for  the  town  of  Aztalan. 


WALLS  OF  CORN  AND  OTHER  POEMS.  253 

But,  alas  for  side  attractions!    They  were  passing  through 

the  town 

That  sits  by  yonder  lake,  with  its  houses  white  and  brown, 
When  he  reigned  aside  his  team  at  a  pretty  village  gate; 
He  wished  to  "call  a  minute,"  and  told  his  man  to  wait. 

But  dark  eyes  shown  within,  and  he  found  himself  en 
chanted; 

And,  swift  and  unaware,  the  enchanted  evening  waned, 
Till  he  started  on  a  sudden,  exclaiming,  "By  the  powers!" 
For  Time,  that  waits  for  no  man,  had  passed  the  smallest 
hours. 

It  was  time  to  seek  his  cattle,  in  the  town  of  Aztalan! 
He  remembered  now  his  team  and  the  waiting  hired  man; 
Where  were  they?    Hans  had  waited,  how  long  I  cannot 

say; 
But  the  night  was  gray  and  chill,  and  his  patience  oozed 

away. 

Then  he  drove  along  a  piece,  hitched  the  horses  to  the 

fence, 

And  made  tracks  for  home,  like  a  man  of  common  sense; 
Pie  left  the  hungry  horses,  the  wagon  and  the  calf; 
But  for  him  to  wait  all  night,  it  was  too  much,  by  half! 

When  at  last  the  man  came  out,  he  didn't  see  his  team, 
For  the  clouded  morning  moon  gave  but  a  feeble  gleam; 
He  looked  about,  and,  seeing  neither  man  nor  brute, 
Supposed  that  all  were  gone,  and  posted  off  afoot. 

He  laid  him  down  and  slept, — 'tis  thus  the  story  goes; 
Whether  his  dreams  were  sad  or  sweet,  nobody  knows; 
He  rose  at  early  dawn  and  to  his  stable  sped. 
But  lo!  the  stalls  were  empty;  and  his  heart  it  sunk  like 
lead . 


254         WALLS  OF  CORN  AND  OTHER  POK.Ms. 

He  called  to  Hans:   "See  here;  where  are  those  horses,  sir?'' 
"Why,  in  the  stable,  aren,t  they?  I  supposed  of  course  tlic.v 

were; 

"I  left  them  waiting,  sir,  for  you.    Pray  do  not  fret; 
"I  tied  them  well;  I  think  they  must  be  waiting  yet!" 

The  honest  fellow  didn't  see  the  ghastly  joke, 
But  his  angry  master  did,  and  then  in  thunder  spoke: 
Here,  sir!  Post  off!    Be  quick,  and  get  that  team  away, 
Before  the  pesky  villagers  are  stirring  for  the  day! 

But  all  too  latel.the  folks  were  up,  and  loud  the  laugh 
That  greeted   that  poor  Dutchman,  those  horses  and  that 

calf; 

They  questioned  Hans,  who  straightway  all  the  story  told. 
Which  same  the  villagers  repeat  to  young  and  old. 

Here  is  the  wholesome  moral,  which  this  tale  doth  plainly 

teach, 

And  this  the  printed  sermon  such  experience  doth  preach: 
That  solid  landed  men  who  are  seeking  better  halves, 
Shouldn't  try  to  do  their  wooing  when  they  go  a  buying 

calves. 


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